An Opening Door
by tailkinker.au
Summary: Slave AU. Wilson encounters a disabled cleaning slave at PPTH called Greg and becomes intrigued with him. An unlikely friendship forms between the two as Wilson tries to secure a better life for Greg. House & Wilson friendship with some Cuddy. This is NOT a dark!Wilson fic.
1. Chapter 1

The truck rolled to a stop, and within seconds the back doors were thrown open.

Greg got to his feet with the other slaves but hung back to let them get out first. Most of the slave handlers were pretty good about letting the old crippled slave take his time getting down from the truck but the new guy was out to impress. He caught Greg with a blow from the crop on his forearm and then another one on his back as he flinched away from the first.

"Get your lazy ass down from that truck, slave. This place is paying for twelve hours labour from you and they're damn well going to get it. We have a reputation to maintain."

Greg jumped down from the tailgate. His bad leg collapsed underneath him and threw him against one of the younger slaves who pushed him off without a word. He managed to steady himself and fall into line with the rest, his leg sending shivers of pain up his spine with every step. It was going to be a long day.

They were herded into the building, a hospital, and down to the basement level. It looked like there had been a fire, the walls were scorched and the floor was filthy with a mixture of ash and water. The smell was overwhelming. The handlers were given masks and gloves to wear, the slaves got nothing.

It was evident that the slaves were there to clean up the mess and they were quickly put to work. Greg wondered why the hospital didn't have its own slaves to do this sort of work. He was currently owned by a labour hire company who rented out their stable of slaves to workplaces that didn't keep their own. This hospital looked large enough that it should have at least a few slaves but he hadn't seen any yet - only his fellow slaves from the company.

He struggled to keep up with the others as he always did. He sometimes wondered why the company kept him on, or indeed had bought him in the first place. Most of the slaves were young and fit, and Greg was neither. Permanently crippled by the infarction in his leg he was a liability at best on most of their work sites and he soon proved one here.

Unable to shovel quickly with his precarious balance he was set to hauling buckets of debris up the stairs and out to a waiting skip. He managed three trips well enough but on the fourth his lameness had him faltering and then tripping over, spilling the contents of his bucket over the floor. He staggered back to his feet and began picking up the mess with his hands but one of the handlers sent him on his way with a slap to the back of his head.

"Get out of here, slave. You're useless. They want someone to go clean the bathrooms, you can go and do that. Try not to trip over anything."

He made his way up another flight of stairs to the first floor and located the necessary equipment in a janitor's closet. Keeping his head down he made his way to the first bathroom he came across and entered, first checking that no-one was using it. The bathroom looked neglected, like it hadn't been cleaned for a while. He knelt down on the cold tiles and set to work. Once the first one was done he went to the next, and then the next.

He was on his way to yet another bathroom when he passed a knot of doctors outside a room. They were talking about a patient, discussing his symptoms. None of them could work out what was wrong with the man - they were all arguing with each other, their voices raised. Greg listened to the conversation with fascination. Some of the words sounded familiar, like old friends. He tried to reach for them in his mind and felt a wave of nausea go through him, and a sharp pain slice through his head. He gasped involuntarily and held one hand up to his temple.

"You boy, what are you doing hanging around?" The doctors were staring at him, their faces angry at the interruption. One of them advanced towards him.

Greg went to his knees and bowed his head.

"This slave is cleaning the bathrooms, sir."

There was a moments silence and Greg waited for a blow to come.

"Get on with it then." Greg heard footsteps as the doctor walked away, back to his colleagues.

He got to his feet quickly and slipped away to find the next bathroom to clean. His stomach still felt unsettled and there was a dull ache in his head. He drove all thought of the doctor's conversation out of his mind as he went about his work.

* * *

Doctor James Wilson threw down his pen and rubbed his tired eyes. The fire in the hospital's basement had led to their closure for two days, and since they'd reopened he'd been struggling to catch up with the backlog.

He got to his feet and made his way out of the office, he needed a break for a few minutes and nature called. Going to the nearest bathroom he swung the door open, only to nearly hit a man who was about to leave.

The man quickly sunk to his knees with his head bowed. At the sight of the leather collar around the man's neck Wilson choked off the quick apology he was about to make. One did not apologize to a slave.

He went over to the urinal and did his business, only realizing when he turned around to wash his hands that the slave was still there, quietly kneeling. Of course, he hadn't been dismissed.

Oh well, he'd leave soon enough once Wilson had left.

Wilson washed his hands and left. As he walked away from the bathroom he heard the door open again and something made him turn around. The slave was leaving, his head still bowed, his eyes on the ground. He left in the opposite direction to Wilson and as he walked away Wilson could see that he was extremely lame. His right leg dragged heavily when he walked, and the slave had one hand on that thigh, as if supporting it. His progress was quicker than one would expect, with such a severe limp, and soon he was out of sight.

Wilson frowned. Surely even a slave would be entitled to some sort of assistive equipment if he was injured, or permanently disabled. He tried to think if he'd ever seen a slave using a cane, or crutches, but could not recall one. Not that he had extensive knowledge of slaves, he'd never had one of his own and his Department didn't rate one. The hospital slaves were used for janitorial work, not for admin. Or what was left of them, the fire had killed several. Luckily they were insured and Cuddy would be able to replace them once the paperwork was sorted out.

He recalled seeing an email that explained the hospital was using a slave hire company in the meantime. The one from the bathroom must be one of those. Why such a business would employ a lame slave was another question.

He took one step in the slave's direction - intending to seek answers to his questions - and then stopped. It was none of his business what arrangements were made for a slave. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He must really be tired if he was letting trivialities like this distract him. He should go home and get some rest. Of course home wasn't all that pleasant a prospect at the moment. He'd split up with Julie, his third wife, and was living alone in a small apartment in Princeton. It was a place to stay but it wasn't really a home.

He headed back to his office, he'd work for a little while longer.

* * *

Greg was finishing up the last in a long string of bathrooms when a mild shock went through him and his collar buzzed. That was the recall signal. He did a final polish with his cloth and then got to his feet. Like always after a hard day's labour both his back and his leg were gripped with pain. There was no time to waste however if he wanted to avoid another shock, and a punishment for being late. He quickly returned his cleaning materials to where he had found them and made his way to the stairway. It would be quicker to travel by elevator, especially given his disability, but that was strictly forbidden. Elevators were for freemen, they could only be used by slaves if they had been given explicit permission. Greg supposed that if he were cleaning a fifty floor building he'd be given permission to use the goods elevator at least, but three flights of stairs were nothing.

He was descending the last flight of stairs carefully, when his right leg began to cramp and spasm. He moaned in pain and bit his lip. Deciding to try and walk it off he put his foot down on the next step.

His leg collapsed underneath him, pitching him off balance and down the rest of the staircase. He landed heavily on the tiled floor below, his head striking the ground.

* * *

Wilson had just left the elevator and was heading for the exit when he heard a cry and then the sound of something hitting the floor. He spun around and saw a man lying at the bottom of the staircase, motionless.

When he got to the man's side and bent to examine him he realised it was the slave from earlier. He must have fallen down the stairs - not surprising considering how lame he was. The slave appeared to be unconscious and he rolled him over carefully. The slave's face was bloody and as Wilson probed the source of the blood he could see he'd cut himself above the eyebrow. Not serious, but bloody as all head wounds tended to be.

There didn't appear to be any more serious injuries but the slave would have to be examined properly. Wilson turned around to call for a guerney, one hand still resting on the slave's body, when he felt a shock go through his body. He yelped and looked back at the slave. His collar was making a buzzing sound and a red light was blinking on it.

"Careful, Doctor Wilson, you don't want to get shocked again." A hand fell on his shoulder, urging him away and Wilson looked up to see one of the hospital's guards - George. "That's a recall signal. Whoever he belongs to is calling him back. The shocks will get stronger if he doesn't respond."

"He _can't _respond, he's unconscious," Wilson snapped.

The guard shrugged. "Well whoever is calling him doesn't know that. He's not one of ours. He belongs to that slave hire company - Rent-A-Slave. They were called in to help clean the basement. I'll contact them to let them know what's happened. They can come pick him up."

"No, he needs a cervical collar and a back-board before he can be moved. Then he needs to go to the ER for assessment. He may have spinal or head injuries."

"He's just a slave, he'll be fine."

"Even slaves can break their backs. Don't argue with me. Call the ER and get them to send a gurney up, and then call whoever you need to and tell them not to shock him again. He's not going anywhere soon."

The guard looked at him strangely but turned away to comply and Wilson turned his attention back to the slave. Blood was still dripping out of the cut and as Wilson watched the slaves eyes opened. Wilson quickly shook his head, put a finger to his lips, and closed his own eyes. When he opened them again the slave was lying quietly with his eyes firmly closed.

Once the ER team arrived Wilson supervised the precautionary measures and had the slave placed on the gurney.

"We can take it from here, Doctor Wilson."

"No, I'm coming with you." Wilson felt a proprietary interest in his patient now. He'd make sure the man got proper treatment, that was the least he could do for him. "Show me as his doctor."

* * *

"Expanding your practice?"

Wilson looked up from his coffee to see Cuddy standing next to him, and amused smile on her face.

"We generally send all non-emergency slave cases down the road to General. They're better equipped to deal with them."

"He fell down our stairs, I thought the least we could do is make sure he hadn't broken his back before kicking him out."

"Rent-a-Slave won't cover the costs you know, they are saying we treated him without their permission."

"It only happened an hour ago and already you're arguing over costs." Wilson shook his head.

"There _are_ procedures to follow, and books to balance. We can't all be 'heroes in white coats'." Cuddy pointed the file she was holding at Wilson. "Thanks to you we have to stable him for the night - the rest of them have gone back to their home base. Not to mention the cost of all those tests you ordered."

"He's lame, Cuddy. And old, and he was cleaning our bathrooms all day, and then walking down four flights of stairs because he isn't allowed to use the elevator. They shocked him while he was lying on the floor."

"You sound like an abolitionist."

"No, but I _am_ a doctor. You know, first - do no harm. Maybe you remember that one."

"I've heard of it." Cuddy sighed. "I'll take it out of discretionary funds. He can't stay on a general ward but there's a small room I can have him moved to out of the way - we sometimes use it for slaves. The other slaves from that company are coming back tomorrow - he can rest up and then go home with them in the evening. Will that suit you?"

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Thanks, Cuddy."

* * *

Greg cautiously opened his eyes and looked around the room he had been placed in. He was alone, although he could see people moving around outside. Like much of this hospital his room had glass walls, although some blinds partially shielded him from view.

There were restraints around both his wrists, tethering him to the bed The restraints were soft, and padded, and he assumed that normally they would be used on aggressive patients. They would be kinder on his wrists than the metal handcuffs that were usually used for disciplinary measures on slaves.

He'd obeyed the order of the man who had found him on the stairs, and kept his eyes closed for much of the time the medical staff were examining him. They'd roused him to 'consciousness' in the ER by using pain - it had been impossible to keep feigning sleep. They'd asked questions about his fall, and where he was feeling pain and then quickly had him x-rayed, presumably to rule out spinal damage. He'd been stripped of his work clothes and given a hospital gown to wear. Then they'd moved him to this room, fastened him to the bed and left him alone.

He hadn't experienced any further shocks from his collar, although he must have missed recall. He wasn't sure of how long had passed while he was being examined but he thought it must be quite late at night. He was hungry - morning meal was many hours in the past and he'd had no evening meal - but hunger was something he was used to. He'd drunk from the faucets in the bathrooms he'd cleaned so that wasn't a problem at the moment, although he wondered what would happen if he needed to use the facilities here.

He tugged lightly at one wrist but the restraints were strong, and besides, there was little point in trying to free himself - where would he go? In his younger days, in his first weeks as a slave, he'd tried to escape several times. Even with his first owner he'd still made an escape attempt. His owner hadn't been as concerned with scars as the training place had been, he'd collected his first set of lash marks on his back as a consequence for that attempt. Worst had been the extra confinement imposed on him in the weeks afterwards. The small degree of freedom a slave had was valuable; losing any of it hurt more than the lash of a whip.

He felt uneasy, both from being in a hospital, and being in a strange place. His life was one of grinding routine, and the absence of it was strange. He was as helpless here as it was possible for a slave to be - completely at the mercy of these people. Furthermore he wasn't where he was _supposed_ to be - which was back in his dorm in the company building. He wondered what the other slaves would make of his absence.

The door to his room slid open and he tensed. It was the man from the stairs - the one who had held his finger to his lips to tell him to be quiet. As he looked at him now he realised he'd seen him before, while nearly knocking him over in a bathroom. He hadn't seemed angry then, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Sometimes free people stored up their anger for a long time.

"Hi, just wanted to see how you were going?' The man said, hovering near the doorway, he almost looked... _embarrassed?_

Greg didn't know what to answer to that, or what to do. He should kneel - but he couldn't get up. The man had asked him a direct question so it would be permissible, indeed necessary, for him to answer but what should he say? That his head was hurting and his leg was, as was normal, in agony? He hadn't been given any drugs, not even the ibuprofen he was usually handed at the evening meal.

Apparently he had taken too long to answer as the man continued on in a rush. "I'm Doctor Wilson, I found you on the stairs, that was quite a tumble you took. Did they tell you what's happening?"

"No, sir," he answered. That one was simple, no-one had told him anything.

"The people you were with have left for the day. They'll be back tomorrow and you can go home with them in the evening. We just want to keep an eye on you for a few hours. They x-rayed your spine and there's no damage, but you were knocked out, so there's concussion."

He was to spend the whole night and the next day in this bed? Doing nothing? That was a luxury indeed, despite the restraints on his wrists.

"Yes, sir." He said in response when Doctor Wilson seemed to be waiting for some reaction.

Doctor Wilson crossed the room and picked up a folder that was in a holder at the end of his bed. His chart, Greg realised. He ran his eyes over the top page and then flipped through another couple of pages, obviously looking for something. He looked up at Greg and frowned.

"Slave 435689-28-GH ? I can't call you that - what's your name?"

"Greg, sir." He briefly thought his surname but the wave of nausea that instantly engulfed him was enough to stop that line of thought. He didn't have another name that people might use. He was Greg, that was good enough for a slave.

"They haven't given you any medication, Greg? Nothing for the pain?"

Greg wished he hadn't mentioned pain. He'd been trying to dismiss that from his mind.

"No, sir."

The doctor frowned and made a note in the chart.

"Are you in pain?"

Again he wasn't sure what to answer. Any answer could be wrong. But he _was_ in pain and even the slim chance that Doctor Wilson would provide medication was better than nothing.

"Yes, sir."

The Doctor frowned again and rubbed his hand over his face, he seemed exasperated.

"Is that all you can say? Yes, sir, no, sir? Where does it hurt?"

"Sir, my head hurts, and my side. And my leg hurts, of course." Might as well slip that in there as he was asking. "Sir, I usually get some ibuprofen with evening meal." He held his breath, he might have gone too far, this was more than he had talked to a freeman for quite some time.

"What happened to your leg? The chart doesn't mention it." He frowned again, he seemed displeased about something or other, Greg wasn't sure what.

"An infarction sir, in my thigh, seven years ago. Some of the muscle was removed. There was some damage to the nerves."

"And all you get is ibuprofen?" Doctor Wilson made another mark on the chart. "I'm ordering up something stronger for you - some oxycodone. Have you had anything to eat?'

"No, sir. Not since morning meal."

"Damn. Kitchen will be closed. I'll go and get you something, you need to have something to eat with the oxy."

He stared at the doctor, surprised. Maybe he had knocked himself out and he was dreaming this encounter. Doctor Wilson made a little gesture with his hand, somewhat like a wave, and quickly left.

Greg looked down at the bonds on his wrists. They seemed real enough. He closed his eyes and waited. Maybe Doctor Wilson would return, maybe he wouldn't. But just the promise of it, the idea that someone, someone who didn't _own_ him, would care enough to go and get him food and pain killers, was enough.

* * *

Wilson paused outside the slave's... _Greg's_ room long enough to instruct the nurse on duty to have some oxy ready for when he returned. She looked at him oddly and he rolled his eyes impatiently. Was it so odd that a slave should receive adequate medical care? Even from a purely pragmatic point of view surely it made sense that a slave should be cared for well to extended their useful working life.

Greg's chart had been skimpy. It looked like the ER staff had done the bare minimum. There was barely any history - even of his pre-existing injury. Wilson wondered if the lame leg had caused the fall. He'd glimpsed the horrific scar on his thigh while Greg was in the ER and he was sure that the leg was causing him considerable pain. His limp was severe and they type of work he had to do could only aggravate it.

As he made his way back to his office he briefly contemplated having one of his junior doctors go out for some take-out for Greg, maybe some thai, or a pizza. He wasn't sure what slaves ate - probably something filling but basic. He'd probably appreciate a treat. Then he shook his head, if he did that it would be all around the hospital in no time. He might not be up on the finer points of slave handling etiquette but he was pretty sure that would be breaking some of them.

Instead, he made his way to the oncology lounge and dug out the peanut butter and some bread. He'd make Greg a couple of sandwiches. It wasn't a hot meal, but it was better than nothing. On a whim he stopped off at a vending machine on the way back to Greg's room and picked out a couple of chocolate bars. Who didn't like chocolate? He shoved the food into a pocket on his lab coat.

The nurse had the oxy ready for him and he signed for it. A couple of pills would probably knock Greg out for the night, as he wasn't used to it, and a good night's sleep would do him wonders. He looked gaunt and worn down; Wilson had been surprised to find out that he was only a few years younger than Greg - he'd put the slave at closer to sixty than fifty.

Greg looked up at him as he entered his room. There was still some wariness in his expression and he didn't meet Wilson's eyes but he seemed a bit less tense than he had earlier.

"Brought you some food." Wilson said, wheeling over the table and putting the sandwiches on it. "It's not much but the cafeteria is closed."

"Thank you, sir." Greg said but didn't make a move to take the sandwich. Of course, his wrists were restrained.

Wilson sighed and bent over one of the restraints. They were the type used for psych patients and were fairly easy to remove if you could use your hands. He undid the right one, at least he'd be half honouring the hospital policy of keeping any slave patients restrained and Greg could manage a sandwich one handed.

Greg still didn't move to pick up the sandwich and Wilson sighed again. "It's okay, Greg. Go ahead and eat. Then you can take the pills."

Apparently Greg had been waiting for permission as he immediately picked up the sandwich and started devouring it. Before Wilson could blink he'd gone through both sandwiches as if they were the best food he'd had in a long time. Wilson smiled and produced one of the chocolate bars.

Greg's eyes went wide and Wilson figured that chocolate wasn't a major component of his usual diet.

"You've had chocolate before?"

"Yes. I wasn't born a slave." There was a trace of resentment in Greg's otherwise quiet voice. That, and dropping the 'sir' were the first signs of a personality beyond that of a bland, monotone slave. He immediately flinched and dropped his gaze to the thin blanket that covered him.

Wilson felt a surge of irritation, did Greg think he was going to hit him for speaking out of turn? Then he realised he was being unfair. Greg didn't know him, and had no way of knowing how Wilson would react. He backed off and sat down in the chair next to Greg's bed and pulled out the other chocolate bar from his pocket, leaving Greg's on the bed next to him.

He started eating his and after a brief pause Greg picked his own up and removed the wrapper. As he ate he seemed to relax a little, and he looked back up at Wilson.

Wilson was struck by the sharpness of his gaze. His eyes were a striking blue, and although there were age, and pain, lines all around them they were still bright. Greg was sizing him up, he was sure of that. Wondering just what Wilson's motives were. Wilson wondered himself.

When Greg was finished eating Wilson gave him the pills.

"They're stronger than what you're used to. They'll probably make you sleepy. I'll leave orders that you get another dose in the morning."

"Thank you, sir."

It was time for him to go. He'd done all he could for Greg. He made a mental note to come and see him after his own rounds tomorrow and make sure he was showing no further ill effects from his fall. He'd like to keep him in the hospital another day or two, maybe get him some proper treatment for his leg, but he knew there was no chance of that.

He gathered up the dinner debris and dumped it in the trash and nodded to Greg.

"I have to go. You should get some rest."

"Yes, sir."

"Good night, Greg."

There was a hint of a smile on the other man's face when he answered. "Goodnight, Doctor Wilson."

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_He sat in his prison uniform with a row of other newly made slaves. Each was wearing a leather collar around their necks and sporting identical shaved heads. Each held a file in their hands which they were to carry through this process. Every detail of his life was in that file. Everything that had brought him to this point. All the contact details of his family, all his medical details, his resume, his educational history. Everything._

_When his name was called he stood obediently and was ushered into a small office. The lady there smiled at him._

_"Have you been treated well so far, Greg?"_

_He had a smart answer ready on the tip of his tongue, but his collar was sitting uncomfortably around his throat, and he was nervous about what was to come. For once in his life he decided to try and not alienate someone who appeared friendly. He just nodded stiffly at her question._

_"Good. I know this is stressful but we try and make this process as painless as possible, for everyone's sake. If you behave well you'll be treated well. We want happy slaves not miserable ones."_

_He relaxed slightly. This was going better than he had expected. _

_"Give me your file, Greg."_

_He handed it over, feeling even better. He had good qualifications. He was sure they could find some use for a slave as well educated as he was that would use his abilities. He'd be out of the damned prison and could start to have some sort of life again._

_The lady perused the file, nodding her head at several places and making sounds of approval. Then she handed it back to him._

_"Take this over to the shredder in the corner, Greg and run it all through."_

_He stared at her and she clicked her tongue in disapproval._

_"That was an order, Greg. You don't want to start disobeying orders just yet, do you? Go and shred the file. Bring back the empty folder."_

_She was still smiling as he destroyed the record of his life, page by page. When he returned to her with the empty folder she took it, removed a form from her desk and told him to kneel at her feet. He hesitated and she frowned at him, tapping a pen on her desk. _

_Finally he knelt. If this was the worst thing he had to do as a slave then he would survive. He could always pretend it was some hot bondage scene – he'd always fantasized about those._

_She bent down to him and examined the tag on his collar, writing down a number from it on the top of the sheet. _

_"Slave 435689-28-GH. That's your registration number, Greg. I suggest you memorize it as soon as you can." Next to the number she wrote his name - Greg. She slipped the paper inside the folder._

_"That's who you are now, Greg. Forget your old life, forget who you were. This is you now. All that counts is what you do now."_

_He was still kneeling by her feet as she gave him the folder. She patted him on the head in what he thought was supposed to be a friendly fashion. He shied away but she ignored that. "Okay, Greg. You've done well. Get up and go outside and someone will take you along to your first class. Remember, if you behave well you will be treated well. This can be a good life for you, Greg."_

_Everybody lies._

* * *

It was nearly midday before Wilson could get up to Greg's room the next morning. He'd had rounds, and then staff meetings and the usual endless interruptions. As it was, he only had ten minutes before he had to be in a Departmental Heads meeting. He'd just stop in, check Greg was okay and give him the bagel he'd picked up for him. It would be cold now but it would still be better than the usual hospital breakfast.

When he got to the room he stopped dead at the door. It was empty. The bed was neatly made and the room had been scrubbed down. Greg was long gone.

The nurse on duty just shrugged at him. "Somebody came for him this morning apparently - I wasn't here."

"Who? Which doctor signed him out?"

"He wasn't officially signed in to the ward so I don't think anyone signed off on it. It's been a crazy morning." The nurse looked down at her computer screen but evidently that didn't offer any answers. "I can ask around, see if anyone was here when he left."

"No, it's okay." Wilson knew that he wouldn't get any answers, and it was more than it was worth to get the nurses pissed at him. Greg would have been discharged that afternoon anyway. He'd done all he could for him.

He hurried off to his meeting, stopping off first at the nearest men's room to relieve himself.

Greg wasn't there.

* * *

The Departmental Heads meeting dragged on. Wilson had been in charge of Oncology for two years now and he was used to the wrangling between various departments for a larger share of the hospital's budget but he was finding the process particularly tedious and aggravating today. He zoned out during Henderson's spiel about the needs of the surgical department and only tuned in again when he realised that Henderson was complaining about the lack of hospital slaves.

"The operating rooms need to be scrubbed every day, as you well know Doctor Cuddy. Since the fire the remaining slaves have been very slack."

"Five slaves died in that fire," Wilson said, surprised at the anger he was feeling. "The remaining three have the work of eight to do now. And possibly they are upset at the loss of their friends."

He realised that the other doctors around the long table were looking at him oddly. Maybe they hadn't considered the possibility that the slaves might possibly have had friends amongst those who died.

Henderson shook his head. "That's why the hospital employed the services of that slave rental company."

"Those services were to assist in the cleaning up operation." Cuddy interjected smoothly. "They've been focusing their work there. I'll have a word to their supervisor and see if any can be spared for the rest of the hospital, or if we need to rent a few more."

"Or we could just employ some paid cleaners." Wilson suggested, earning him another round of bemused looks.

"The hospital budget is limited, Doctor Wilson. Slaves are the most economical method." Cuddy said, shooting him a look which seemed to suggest he might want to shut up any time now. "Now, onto the question of the proper procedure for..."

When the meeting finally finished Cuddy gave Wilson a look and he lingered until all the others had dispersed.

"Is everything okay, James?" she asked when the room was cleared. "You seem a bit... distracted."

He wondered why everyone suddenly thought that showing concern for some slaves was the sign of impending mental illness.

"Greg was taken away today, without anybody signing off on it."

"Greg?"

He sighed. "The slave from yesterday? He was in a room on the fourth floor. He was supposed to stay until tonight and then go home with the others. Instead of that, somebody came and got him early this morning. As far as I can work out no doctor saw him before then."

"Well, his stay here was sort of... informal. I guess the normal procedures weren't followed because of that."

Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't really blame Cuddy for being casual about this, it wasn't something he'd thought about much until the last couple of days.

"Look, you established the clinic so that nobody was excluded from medical help because they couldn't afford it. And you make sure all the doctors spend time there. So why should we suddenly stop caring when it comes to slaves? Greg was injured in our hospital, working for us. He spent the night in a hospital bed. Surely we have some sort of duty of care to him?"

Cuddy's temper flared up. "I do everything I can to help those who can't help themselves. _This hospital_ does everything it can. I wrote off all those tests you ordered for this damned slave of yours - I got him a bed for the night. I'm sorry I wasn't there to hold his hand this morning, maybe you could have been there, Doctor Wilson, if it meant so much to you."

"Cuddy, I -"

"I can't fix the world, Wilson. I have a Board to answer to, donors to keep happy and a whole bunch of doctors who all want to go off on their own quixotic little quests."

"I know, I know. I just... I need to know that he's okay. You haven't seen him, Cuddy. He's disabled, and in pain and nobody seems to give a damn about him."

Cuddy threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. I need to talk to their supervisor anyway. I'll get him to send the slave-"

"Greg."

"- _Greg_ to the one of the exam rooms in the clinic. Will that suit you?"

"Yes. Thanks, Cuddy." Wilson nodded and headed for the door.

"James," Cuddy said as he was almost out of the room and he looked back. "Be careful. Don't get too involved. He's a slave - you can only help so much."

"Just a quick exam and then that's it." Wilson promised. He hurried off, he wanted to pick up a couple of things before he saw Greg again.

* * *

Greg wasn't surprised when he didn't see Doctor Wilson again in the morning. He'd had a good sleep, the best sleep he'd had in many years. The pain in his leg hadn't woken him once during the night like it usually did, and even his hands being restrained hadn't bothered him. It was way past his normal waking time when he did wake up. He realised immediately that he needed to go to the bathroom, and that he had no way of getting there.

He was wondering if it would be better to wet the bed or call out for a nurse when one of the slave handlers from his company walked into his room.

The woman was one of the better handlers - she was fairly even tempered and had a reputation for being fair amongst the slaves - but he still tensed. He wasn't where he should be, or doing what he should be, two prime misdemeanours for a slave.

"Greg, you look fit. It's time to go. We'll put you on light duties today," she said as she unfastened his shackles.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, they liked to hear acknowledgment of their orders. "Ma'am, I need to use the bathroom."

There was a small bathroom in the corner of this room and she nodded to it. "Be quick."

He limped over to it as quickly as he could, leaving the door open. She watched him as he peed and then washed his hands. He took a quick glance at her and then splashed some water on his face. She made no verbal protest but tapped her crop against her side impatiently and he quickly straightened and wiped his face dry.

His work clothes from yesterday had been dumped in a corner of the room and he stripped off his hospital gown and changed into them. He caught a glimpse of an assortment of bruises from the fall - he'd be sore today.

The handler took him back down to the basement, now much improved from the day before, and gave him a can of paint and some cleaning supplies.

"Clean the wall first, and then paint it. Did they feed you this morning?"

"No, ma'am."

She reached into a pocket of her uniform and pulled out a food bar. They were emergency supplies for the slaves - when they couldn't get back to the company for a proper meal. They were tasteless but better than nothing.

"Five minutes, then I want to see you working."

"Yes, ma'am," he said smartly.

"Don't fall down any more stairs today. It's very unprofessional."

"No, ma'am," he said. As she walked away he reflected that it wasn't like he _meant_ to fall down any stairs yesterday. He wondered how she would manage with a leg like his and while he ate his dry food bar he entertained himself with trying to imagine it.

* * *

When Wilson entered the clinic exam room he was surprised to see Greg kneeling by the exam table, rather than sitting on it. A woman he didn't recognise was sitting in a chair by the desk. A quick glance revealed that she was wearing a shirt with the logo of Rent-A-Slave on it.

"You wanted to see the slave?" The woman said, not bothering with introductions.

"I need to examine him after his fall yesterday."

The woman nodded. "Greg, stand up and strip off so the doctor can examine you."

Wilson started to protest that it wasn't necessary but Greg was already stripping off his worn clothing. He was wearing a brown coverall with the company logo on it, and nothing but a pair of old boxer shorts underneath. When he was completely stripped he stood quietly by the exam table with his head bent.

"I like to conduct my exams in private," Wilson said.

"I need to stay with the slave."

"And I need you to leave." Wilson folded his arms and stared the woman down. Finally she sighed.

"Very well. I'll be outside. Please don't take too long, Doctor. There's a lot of work to do here and we need Greg."

Wilson restrained himself from answering her - no need to unnecessarily antagonise the woman who obviously had power over Greg - and waited until she had closed the door behind her before addressing Greg.

"I'm sorry I didn't get back to you this morning. I came but you had already gone."

"I had to go, Doctor Wilson." Greg said, his head coming up. There was a trace of fear in his eyes.

"I know that, Greg." Wilson thought about telling Greg to get dressed again, but it would be easier to get a proper assessment for any injuries while he was naked, and he didn't seem bothered by his nudity. He reached into the pocket of his labcoat and produced the chocolate bar he'd picked up on the way here. This time Greg took it readily. Wilson wondered if he'd eaten at all. Maybe he should have brought that bagel along after all, he'd pitched it in the trash when he couldn't give it to Greg that morning.

While Greg ate his chocolate Wilson visually assessed him. He had some bruising around his ribcage and along his side. Wilson could see several old scars on his body, besides the horrendous scar on his thigh. He itched to examine that thigh properly but that was beyond the scope of this appointment. Greg was lean, without being emaciated, and was reasonably well muscled.

"Sit up on the table, Greg."

When Greg was sitting he picked up his stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. Both were sound. His blood pressure proved to be good, and Wilson took a blood draw to examine later - although what he could do if the results showed Greg needed further follow up he didn't know. Greg tensed during the blood draw but otherwise didn't seem concerned by the medical procedures. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room. Wilson got the feeling he was taking in every detail.

On a trip to a cabinet on the other side of the room he passed behind Greg and paused at the sight of his back. There were faded lash marks going from one side to the other. Greg had been soundly whipped sometime in the past. Greg must have heard him pause as he turned his head around to look at him, suddenly wary.

"It's okay," Wilson smiled reassuringly. "Just getting you some pain killers. Have you had any today?"

"No, sir."

Wilson passed him a couple of Tylenol 3 - the best he could do without giving him narcotics.

"Take those, they should help a bit. I'll have a word to the..." he stopped as he had no idea of the correct term to describe the lady who had been with him, "... to her when she comes back in. You should have something, you have to be in a fair amount of pain from the look of that bruising."

Greg didn't say anything, just taking the pills and the glass of water Wilson offered him.

"I suppose they've put you right back to work? I didn't see you in the bathrooms." Wilson hadn't checked all of them of course, just every one he had passed since this morning.

"I'm a painter today, sir." Greg responded and Wilson thought he could detect a trace of dry humour in the quiet words. "I'm painting a wall in the basement."

Wilson wondered if painting was any easier than cleaning bathrooms - he had precious little experience with either.

He checked Greg's reflexes and then his pupil reaction. Both seemed normal.

"I just want to feel your head, Greg." He'd been checked out for skull injuries yesterday but given the apparent attitude of some of the staff to treating a slave Wilson wanted to do it himself. He waited for Greg's assent but Greg was silent.

"Is that okay, Greg?"

Greg looked at him with wide, startled, eyes and Wilson realised that he didn't realise that Wilson had been waiting for him to consent. Nobody had to ask if they could touch a slave.

"Yes," he finally said.

Wilson carefully ran his head over Greg's skull. His hair was cropped short and was thinning on top. Greg tensed below his hands and Wilson kept his tough light. He couldn't feel any bumps and finally he stepped back.

"That seems fine. You were lucky, Greg - you could have been seriously hurt."

Greg looked down at his naked body, and at the scar on his leg. Maybe he didn't feel that lucky after all.

Finally, Wilson couldn't delay any longer and he opened the door to re-admit Greg's guard. She came in and surveyed him. He hadn't gotten dressed again - because Wilson hadn't told him to, and was still sitting on the exam table.

"Get dressed and wait for me outside the door," the woman said to him. Greg quickly slid off the table, pulled up his clothes and left the room, his head again bowed.

"Well, doctor?"

"He doesn't seem to have been badly hurt. He has a lot of bruising. He'll need some pain killers."

"We have a doctor on staff - he'll examine the slave tonight and prescribe the appropriate medication. Thank you for your concern."

"He could do with not working for the rest of the day," Wilson said, "that was a hard fall. And he shouldn't be doing physical labour with that disability anyway. The man can barely walk."

"Doctor, Greg is a slave for hire. If the company can't get work out of him they'll sell him. Do you think anyone would want to be buy him in his condition?"

Wilson wasn't sure what happened to slaves who couldn't be sold but he was pretty sure it wouldn't be good.

"Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but we'll take it from here," she said and left. Wilson went to the door in time to see Greg get up from a kneeling position and follow her, a half step behind, struggling to keep up. He didn't look back.

Wilson cleaned up the room and then went straight to Cuddy's office. She was in a meeting with someone and Wilson could just make out the Rent-A-Slave logo on his shirt - probably the supervisor she was going to meet that afternoon. Good.

He went in without knocking and she frowned at him.

"I am in a meeting, Doctor Wilson, perhaps you could come back -"

He ignored her and looked at the man.

"I want to buy one of your slaves."

_tbc_

* * *

_Thanks for the reviews for the first chapter. I can't answer the 'guest' reviewers but all your comments are much appreciated!_

_To answer a couple of questions - this isn't a CollarVerse AU but it did come out of discussions (and other things) with Oflymonddreams about what would have happened if Greg hadn't been bought by Cuddy for the hospital when he was first made a slave. As always I owe a great deal of my inspiration to them._

_So far I've written (or co-written) in different stories: Wilson as Greg's evil slave owner, Wilson as a fellow slave to Greg, and now this is Wilson as a good guy rescuing Greg :) Yes, I may be obsessed with Greg, Wilson and the whole slavery thing :) _

_Thanks for reading!  
_

_~ Tailkinker  
_

_P.S If anyone is interested in leaving house_wilson prompts (kinky or otherwise!) there is now a prompt meme on live journal. I'll leave a link in my profile. Anonymous comments are welcome (although please read the rules) and you don't need an LJ account to comment. _


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy stared at him and then got up, quickly coming around the desk to hustle him out of the room, while making apologies to her guest. Taking Wilson by the arm she practically dragged him out of the office and closed the door behind them.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I just want to -"

"This isn't a stray dog, or a homeless cat! You're talking about buying a slave!"

"People do," Wilson pointed out. "This hospital even has some."

"We have them because we need them. Not because we feel sorry for them because they're lame!"

"Maybe I need a slave too."

She gave him an exasperated look. "You _don't_ need a slave. I know you, James. You see someone in distress and you want to make it better. You want to take care of them."

"I don't want to -"

"If you don't want to take care of him what do you want with him? To screw him? It's illegal to buy a slave just for that purpose." Incidental use was okay of course, but sex slaves were theoretically against the law. Of course, it wasn't a law that got much exercise. If Wilson wanted the slave for that purpose there wasn't much that would stop him.

"No! I don't want him for that. I just want -"

"- to help him." Cuddy finished for him, throwing her arms up in the air. "I should have seen this coming."

"This isn't anything to do with you. I can contact their company directly and it won't affect my work here. He can keep the apartment straight for me, do the cooking, things like that." Wilson eyed her stubbornly. "Just give that guy my card and get him to contact me. I doubt that they really want a slave like Greg on their books - he can barely walk let alone work twelve hours a day. I should be able to get him cheap."

"I wouldn't bet on that, after you came bursting in like that. It's like you don't know the first thing about negotiation." Cuddy sighed. "Look, I'll have a word with him. We're going to have to use them for a while longer than we thought originally - it's a decent sized contract for them, I'm sure I can leverage something for you. Just - think about this very carefully, Wilson. Owning a slave isn't like owning a car. There's a lot goes into it. I suggest you go and check and see what the requirements are - it's a bit more complicated than I think you imagine. A cat or a dog would be much easier."

"I don't want a pet, Cuddy. I just want to help Greg. He needs it."

* * *

Wilson spent the afternoon researching Slave laws and regulations. It turned out that buying and keeping a slave was a lot more involved than he'd realised. He had to have a license (with a nice fee payable to the state of New Jersey of course), and to get the license he had to attend classes (another nice fee), and he had to have the premises where he was going to keep the slave inspected (another fee). There were a slew of regulations about bed size, and minimum feeding requirements, and other such matters. He had to obtain medical insurance for the slave, and insurance to cover any damage the slave might do to any free person, or any free person's property. It wasn't as simple as writing out a check and taking Greg home with him.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he closed down his web browser. It was just paperwork, and money, and a bit of time. He could do it. He'd made his way through the medical education system, he could buy a slave. He'd buy Greg, and look after him - get him some proper medical attention, some better clothes, make sure he had enough to eat, things like that. And Greg could do some light housework for him - it would be nice to have someone else do it, and to have some company at night. Then, when Greg was doing better, Wilson would probably free him. He'd help him get some sort of job, though that might not be easy, given his disability and the status he would have of being an ex-slave... He pushed that worry aside for now - that was a long way down the track. At the worst he'd just keep Greg as a slave - he'd have a far better life with Wilson then he did now.

He started when there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Cuddy entered.

"Okay - Rent-a-Slave has agreed to sell Greg to you, for ten thousand dollars."

It was both a large amount of money, and a trivially small one to buy a human being. His car had cost three times that amount. Cuddy had come through for him.

"Subject to the full disclosure documents, of course. They're going to get them sent straight to you. You can pull out any time up to giving them the check. And of course, you'll have to show that you've got all your paperwork in order before they'll release him to you."

"I didn't realise there was so much to it," Wilson admitted.

Cuddy nodded. "I looked into it last year - I have a part time handyman, and a cleaner, and I thought it might be easier... But it turned out not to be. Even though we have slaves at the hospital, it's different buying one for your own personal use. It's not just all the red tape, and the expense, it's just the thought of owning another human being. I decided it wasn't something I wanted to do."

"I won't really be _owning_ him, I won't think of it like that." Wilson was uncomfortable with the idea himself. He didn't want to own Greg, he just wanted to make his life better. "I can't just leave him where he is, not now that I've met him. He's broken, Cuddy. You can see it - he's worn down. He's an intelligent human being, and he's living in pain and nobody is doing anything about it."

"Insurance is going to be a killer for him," Cuddy pointed out. "If his condition is as bad as you say. You can put him on your own insurance through the hospital but you'll still have to pay. Good thing you have no kids - he's going to keep you poor."

Wilson grimaced at her mention of him being childless. It wasn't really by choice. He'd been married, and divorced, three times. One of the marriages hadn't lasted long enough for children to be on the horizon, the other two wives hadn't been in a hurry - and again the marriage had been over before they'd gotten around to it. His parents looked at him with disappointment every time they saw him, and Wilson himself couldn't help but be saddened that he didn't have anyone to share his life with.

He'd even dated Cuddy a couple of times - she wanted a child and he'd volunteered to be a sperm donor, or even something more - but she'd miscarried twice, and had stopped trying. He'd brought her flowers, she'd hugged him, and they had mutually decided to go back to just being friends.

"I'll have to meet this slave of yours once you have him. He must be very special if you're going to all this trouble for him."

"I'll have a dinner party," Wilson joked.

"Well, at least he should be able to clear up after it." Cuddy put a business card down on his desk. "That's the guy to talk to at Rent-A-Slave once you have the paperwork sorted. Good luck."

* * *

Greg spent the rest of the afternoon painting the basement walls. He was mostly left alone to get on with it and he put in just enough effort to avoid being disciplined. He was still sore from his fall, and the painkillers Doctor Wilson had given him had started wearing off in the late afternoon. It was nothing he couldn't handle of course, he'd worked through much worse pain, but it was still uncomfortable.

He didn't know what to make of Doctor Wilson. Since he'd become a slave he'd had little contact with free people who weren't his owners. He'd certainly hadn't met anyone like the doctor. Doctor Wilson appeared to be trying to be friendly towards Greg - bringing him food and medication, and arranging the medical exam. Greg wasn't sure why he was acting that way, or what the doctor wanted in exchange. Greg found himself intrigued by the puzzle.

By the time recall was sounded - Greg's collar buzzing and giving him a mild shock even though the slave handler was less than a few feet from him at the time - he was too tired to do anything but clean his work area up and line up with the other slaves. They were taken quickly to the truck and loaded in. Some of the slaves talked in low tones to each other but Greg sat in silence, his head bowed.

Once the truck had arrived back at the building the company used to house its slaves, the usual evening routine followed. The slaves all got out of the truck, stripped and then lined up in the yard to be checked for contraband. Any slave who took anything from a worksite was severely punished so theft was very rare. Greg had learnt how to conceal small things in his mouth but mostly there was little worth taking that was that size - only drugs if he could ever get his hands on them. He'd risk a great deal for painkillers. Unfortunately the hospital had theirs locked up tight and even with his impromptu overnight stay he hadn't managed to score any except for the ones Doctor Wilson had given him.

As they cleared inspection they were allowed to enter the main building for showers and evening meal, and then cleaning of the facilities. After that they were free to do whatever they wanted until lockup time. Greg was heading towards his bunk when a handler called him out.

"Greg - here."

He was walked down to the office section of the large building - where the slaves were forbidden to go by themselves - and taken to the medical room. Greg had been here before of course, for treatment of minor injuries. He wondered if this was something to do with his medical exam today. He'd never had so much attention for a simple fall before.

"Strip off," the handler said and he slipped out of the shorts and t-shirt all the slaves wore in the evening. "Lie down on the exam table."

He did and watched as the manacles on the side were fastened over his wrists and ankles. The handler left without another word.

He was there for a few minutes before the doctor came in. The man was old, and Greg had concluded that he couldn't find a job anywhere else, probably through sheer incompetence. He appeared to have nothing but contempt for the slaves and the contrast to Doctor Wilson couldn't be stronger.

He didn't talk to Greg except to issue brief commands. He seemed mostly intent on a printed form he had on the clipboard he carried. Greg was subject to a brusque examination, with each vital statistic being noted on the form. His blood pressure and pulse were taken, and his reflexes tested. He was released from the manacles to be weighed and have his height taken and then he was told to stand still while the doctor walked around him, making marks on the form. The doctor took note of the bruising to his upper body, his fingers pinching at the skin. Greg squirmed away from the pain and received a quick, hard, slap to his naked ass.

"I told you to stand still, slave. How did you get all this bruising?"

"I fell down some stairs, sir."

"Clumsy. I've told them that you're not worth putting out in the field. I can't imagine why anyone wants to buy you."

"Buy me, sir?" Greg said, and then quickly fell silent. It wasn't his place to ask questions like that.

The doctor laughed. "They'll soon change their mind when they see this report. I'm not prettying it up. The law says that the buyer is entitled to full disclosure of a slave's medical condition. Ashworth isn't going to like it, but it's my neck on the line - not his."

Greg didn't say anything to that - judging that the doctor was talking to himself, not seeking the opinion of a slave. The doctor continued his examination - including a long period of probing at the surgical scar on Greg's thigh which had him gritting his teeth. He hated anyone touching the scar, and the doctor's rough touch was sending waves of pain through his thigh. Doctor Wilson had refrained from touching it, although he'd obviously noticed it.

Finally the doctor snapped on a pair of gloves.

"Spread your legs, bend over and grab your ankles," he ordered. Greg did so, although he could barely reach his calf on the right side, his leg wouldn't straighten and he wobbled precariously in that position. He was roughly entered with a gloved finger and his prostrate probed - presumably to check for any signs of inflammation. Mercifully the doctor was quick about his task and he was given permission to straighten up.

A specimen jar was produced and thrust into his hand.

"Piss in that. Be careful - I don't want a mess all over the floor."

He managed it under the doctor's scrutiny and handed the jar back. It was labelled and sealed - presumably to be sent away somewhere for testing.

"Put your clothes back on and wait outside for the guard." The doctor left the room without another word.

He got back to his dorm just before lockup. Slipping out of his clothes once again he folded them neatly and stowed them under his pillow and got into bed. A guard called bed check and he answered when his turn came. The lights were dimmed and the heavy door to the dorm swung shut and was locked for the night. Around him he could hear the sounds of nineteen other slaves settling down to sleep - just as he had every day for however long he had been here.

He thought about what the doctor had let slip. Someone wanted to buy him. For what purpose? The doctor had been right, it would be foolish to buy a slave like him for any sort of work. He'd been told many times that he had been fortunate that this company had purchased him - there were rumours about places slaves went when they were no longer useful. None of the rumours were good.

Maybe that had been the reason for Doctor Wilson's interest in him. Maybe he knew a company who had need of a slave like Greg. Maybe it was the hospital itself. Greg knew that he had done a good job in cleaning the bathrooms, and the hospital had lost some slaves in the fire - hence why they were employing Rent-A-Slave. Again, though, why would they want a crippled, old, slave rather than a young one? Because he was cheap? He'd have to be cheap.

Or maybe - and this was a chilling thought - the hospital wanted to buy him to use in experimental work. That was one of the rumours that went around about slaves who couldn't work, that they were sold to be used in medical research. Maybe after his fall and time off work the company had decided he was no longer worth his keep and they were negotiating with the hospital. That would explain the two medical exams he'd been subjected to today.

It wasn't that Greg feared dying - most days he'd welcome it - but he didn't want to die as an experimental animal. He thought about Doctor Wilson again, and the kindness he'd shown, he didn't think he would agree to Greg being used like that but it might not be in his control.

He resolved that if it came to that, if that was what he was destined for, he'd fight. He'd do everything he could to make sure his death was swift.

With that thought he sank into an exhausted sleep.

~tbc


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to the reviewers from last chapter, your support is appreciated!_

* * *

Wilson didn't have much time to think about Greg for the next couple of days. He'd set the paperwork in motion for his license and received a class schedule. It turned out he could do the 'Slave Ownership 101' course through a private agency in one intensive weekend session. He'd tentatively made a booking for that and spent a few minutes contemplating the current arrangement of his apartment to see if it would qualify according to regulations. He have to get a lock for the guest bedroom - one which locked from the outside. He was required to have a space to 'secure the slave' if necessary. There was a window in that room so he'd need to get bars for the windows as well. Then there was clothing, and food. Greg could eat what he ate, but Wilson's clothing wouldn't fit him. He didn't know whether Greg possessed any clothing apart from the company uniform Wilson had seen him wearing but it seemed doubtful that he'd have much.

His time had mostly been taken up with the arrival of a fresh batch of interns in his department - all of whom needed close supervision, and his usual large patient load. Oncology was a difficult field - the treatment for his patient's illnesses demanded as much attention as the illnesses themselves. Then there were the children, it was always difficult to watch them suffer, and know that you were causing a great deal of that yourself. On top of that he'd had a patient from the free clinic admitted with a series of unusual symptoms and was struggling to find a diagnosis for him. He had a feeling the answer was just beyond his grasp, eluding him. He was passing the poor man from one department to another in the hopes of finding someone who might know what was causing his rapid deterioration. What was needed, he thought, was an inter-disciplinarian - someone who could see the big picture beyond just their specialty. Somebody who could think outside the box.

It was while he was simultaneously doing rounds with the interns and mulling over the latest results on the patient that he ran into Greg again. Passing a bathroom on the fourth floor he caught a glimpse of his limping gait as he entered the bathroom, cleaning supplies in hand. He almost called out his name but then, glancing at the interns, he restrained himself.

"Go on to the paediatric ward - I'll catch up," he said to his entourage. "Watch out for the Hopkins kid - he's into magic tricks." The youngsters all nodded solemnly and he pushed open the bathroom door.

Greg was in there, already on his knees, scrubbing out the urinal. He looked around when Wilson entered and then quickly back down to his work.

"Hi, Greg," Wilson said cheerfully. It was good to see that Greg looked reasonably well.

"Good morning, sir." Greg stopped scrubbing and put his hands behind his back, bowing his head.

"How are the bruises?"

Greg glanced up at him, a trace of surprise on his otherwise blank face. Maybe he thought Wilson had forgotten about his fall.

"I bet they're a nice colour now," Wilson said, trying to put Greg at ease. He wished Greg would relax a little bit around him. "Don't worry - that means they're healing."

"Yes, sir."

Wilson sighed. He wondered if he should tell Greg he was contemplating buying him. Maybe that would give him some hope for the future. On the other hand if the whole thing fell through for any reason then he'd be disappointed. Probably best not to say anything. He felt his pockets but he didn't have anything to give Greg and he found himself at a loss to what else to say.

Greg kept kneeling silently, waiting for Wilson to dismiss him back to his work. Wilson figured he might as well use the urinal now he was in here, but he felt awkward doing it in the one Greg had been cleaning. He moved over to the next one and unzipped.

"Sir, should I continue cleaning?" Greg asked. There was a trace of _something_ in his voice but Wilson wasn't sure what it was.

"Er... yes, okay - if you want to," Wilson said. Conversations in bathrooms with slaves were weird he decided.

Greg immediately picked up his scrubbing brush and went back to work, appearing to ignore Wilson's presence completely. Wilson shook his head and zipped himself back up. It would be good when he'd got Greg out of here. They'd be able to have a proper conversation - he was sure that Greg must have more to say than just 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'.

He watched the slave for a couple of minutes. Greg was efficient, and thorough, with his cleaning - every motion was practised and purposeful. Kneeling like that must hurt him but he made no complaint.

"How long have you been a slave, Greg?"

Greg immediately stopped his cleaning again and knelt up on his heels. That must be some sort of proper slave etiquette or something. Every time Wilson asked a question Greg was going to have to stop what he was doing and answer. Greg probably had an assigned amount of work to do that morning - every stop was delaying him reaching his goal. But he couldn't - presumably - tell Wilson to piss off and leave him alone.

"I am ... not certain, sir. I think it could be nearly twenty years?"

Wilson shook his head, he couldn't begin to imagine what those years must have been like for him - especially since his injury. Wilson had never given much thought to slaves before, they were around, they served a purpose but no-one he had ever known had owned one, and he'd never known anyone who became one - either voluntarily or involuntarily. The threat was always there of course, when he was a child, and again when he was in medical school with heavy loans hanging over him, but it was a distant threat. Something that happened to other people.

Greg must not have been a bankruptcy case - he would have long since been earned out his contract and been released.

"What were you before you were a slave?"

Greg looked startled for a moment, his mouth opening as if to answer. Suddenly he put a hand on one temple, as if he had a headache.

"Greg? Are you okay?" Greg had paled and Wilson could see he was nauseous. He bent over him, concerned, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't..." Greg said, swaying where he was kneeling.

Wilson took hold of Greg's chin, trying to turn his head so he could check his pupils.

The door to the bathroom opened abruptly, startling Wilson who still had his hands on Greg. It was Henderson - the Surgical Department head. Henderson stared at them and Wilson quickly let Greg go.

"Problem with this slave, Wilson?"

"He's not feeling well," Wilson replied. He glanced at Greg. With Henderson coming in the slave seemed to have relaxed a bit. He was still pale but didn't look like he was going to be immediately sick.

Henderson looked at Greg. "He's probably malingering. All the slaves Cuddy is getting for us are useless. Don't indulge him, Wilson. We're paying that company enough for their slaves - they can work hard when they're here. I'm putting in a complaint to Cuddy."

He crossed to the urinal Greg had been cleaning and relieved himself. He went to wash his hands and then tossed a remark over his shoulder. "Well, slave, you going to sit around all day or clean that thing?"

"Sorry, sir," Greg said and picked up his scrubbing brush again.

"And make sure you clean your hands well after each bathroom you do - we don't need you spreading any infections around."

"No, sir."

Greg bent over his task. He seemed over whatever was affecting him earlier. Wilson would have liked to examine him again but Henderson was impatiently holding the door open for him. With a last concerned look at Greg, Wilson left the bathroom.

* * *

Greg stayed scrubbing until both men had left the bathroom. Then, relieved to be alone momentarily, he stopped for a moment. He rubbed at one temple, the sudden headache had receded but his head was still throbbing. He'd wanted to answer Doctor Wilson - to tell him who he used to be - but he'd felt ill as soon as he thought about it. He always did. He knew, but the knowledge was out of his grasp and behind that wall of pain that came up. Over the years he'd stopped trying to reach for that knowledge. It was easier to live in the endless moment rather than remember he hadn't always been like this. One day he must have been free. He knew things that he wouldn't have if he had always been a slave. Somehow he had lost his freedom a long time ago. Whatever he had done must have been terrible, to deserve punishment like this.

He sighed, bending back to his work. His thoughts remained on Doctor Wilson. He seemed friendly, and harmless, but Greg had been fooled before by people like that. The doctor must want something to keep contacting Greg like this - but Greg couldn't work out what it was. He'd heard no more about being purchased, although that wasn't surprising. His previous experience of being bought was that of being handed off to a new owner with no prior warning. The slave was the last person informed when they were changing hands.

He stopped again and rubbed at his thigh. He couldn't settle into his work. Normally he could just ignore the pain and carry on but being in this hospital was unsettling him. He didn't know why. He would be glad to move on to the next assignment, if he wasn't sold first. The best way to survive as a slave was to bury all emotion, and to just live moment to moment. Thinking about the past, or the future, was to lose that precious equilibrium. And that could be dangerous.

He closed his eyes and permitted himself a few seconds of rest, of trying to regain his calm. When he opened them again he felt blank - just like he should.

He took up the scrubber again and went back to work.

* * *

Cuddy listened to Henderson with only half an ear. The man was an excellent surgeon, and ran his department well, but he was also the biggest whiner on staff. He was still complaining about the cleaning of the ORs, something Cuddy had thought was settled with the assigning of extra slaves to deal with it. Of course it was important, but Cuddy had the feeling that Henderson would complain if a horde of two hundred slaves were spending twenty four hours a day scrubbing the place on their hands and knees with toothbrushes.

"...one of the slaves is even lame. I've seen him around cleaning the bathrooms on the fourth floor. They're sending us their defective slaves. You really need to keep on top of that, Doctor Cuddy. They'll take advantage of you if they can."

Cuddy could well guess who the 'defective' slave was. The mysterious Greg who Wilson was so taken with.

"The 'defective' one was thrown in by Rent-a-Slave as part of a package deal - he's not costing us anything."

"He may not be costing money, but he's a disruption. Doctor Wilson was having to deal with him in a bathroom. The slave was complaining that he was sick. The head of Oncology should not have to play nursemaid to a slave, Doctor Cuddy!"

Damn, she needed to have another word with Wilson. He really needed to stop hanging around Greg, at least until he'd gone through with this damned quixotic quest to buy himself a slave. She liked Wilson, he'd been a good friend to her and even something more once, but he did have a tendency to try and help everyone he met. She'd been worried about him since he left Julie, his third wife. He'd become depressed, and seemed unable to move on with his life - even living in a hotel for several months. At her urging he'd seen a psychiatrist, and was now doing better but she wasn't sure that focusing on a slave as the person he needed to 'help' was a step forward for him. Although it was better than seeking out yet another Mrs Wilson she supposed - she was running out of ideas for wedding gifts.

She got rid of Henderson and made her way up to Wilson's office. He was sitting at his desk perusing the contents of a large yellow envelope.

"This is the full disclosure report on Greg," he said, waving sheets of paper at her. He picked up one of them, which had a crude outline of a male body on it, front and back. She could see it was covered with markings.

"They included this. It has the location of every major scar on the man's body. They call it a 'defect report'."

She examined it - it reminded her of the reports she received on rental cars, with every ding and dent itemised. Greg apparently had a lot of dings and dents.

"It looks like they bungled his infarction. It took over three days to diagnose muscle death in his thigh. At first they thought he was malingering! He must have been in agony. They operated, finally, but it was too late for a full recovery."

"I wonder why they didn't amputate the leg."

"Probably thought it would harm his value too much. Or maybe the insurance doesn't cover artificial limbs - and he'd be useless as a one legged slave."

"He must be close to useless now, with the extent of muscle damage this report indicates." Cuddy scrutinised the old surgical report - it didn't make pretty reading. "For the kind of work he does anyway."

"You'd be surprised - he seems to manage pretty well."

"Except for when he's falling down our staircase."

"I assume he doesn't make a habit of that." Wilson returned to his scrutiny of the papers. "There's no details here about his former life. It starts from his first day of slave training."

Cuddy put the defect report back down on Wilson's desk. She forbore from mentioning that Wilson was supposed to be working, not reading up on a future purchase - Wilson put enough hours in for two doctors.

"Henderson was in my office whining about you and Greg."

That got Wilson's attention. "Me and Greg? Oh - in the bathroom." He frowned. "I just ran into Greg there, had a few words with him. I asked him what he was before he was a slave and I swear just the question seemed to make him sick. I think it gave him a headache, and he was definitely nauseous."

Cuddy nodded. "A slave handler told me once that they condition slaves not to think about their former lives. Not all slaves - just the ones who resist training."

Wilson flicked through the papers. "That would fit. They had Greg marked down as a category one slave in his first position - difficult to handle and requiring strict discipline. He's apparently considered a six now though." He pulled out another piece of paper from the file. "He's a criminal - sentenced to life as a slave, with a twenty five years minimum. He still has six years to go before he can even apply to be freed."

"At least you'll get your money's worth then."

"Not funny. I was going to free him after a year or so - enough time to get him ready for the real world. This makes it a long term commitment."

Cuddy wondered just how long someone who had been a slave for twenty years would require to adapt to being free and how such a former slave would survive. She suspected that Wilson wasn't seeing all the possible problems. She'd had some contact with the hospital's slaves, and they were without exception totally unfit for being anything but a slave. Wilson might have some Pygmalion type dream of rehabilitating Greg and turning him into a useful member of society but Cuddy could see it turning out very badly indeed for him.

"Wilson, are you sure about this? The man must have been a violent criminal to get a sentence that long, and he was classified as a difficult slave. You've got no experience in dealing with either one."

"Whatever Greg used to be, he's not that man now. He's beaten down, Cuddy. He can barely get a few words out when I ask him a question. All I want to do is get him out of there, get him some pain meds, and make his life a little easier. That can't be too difficult. Even I should be able to manage that."

There was an edge of bitterness in his voice with the last few words. Cuddy knew that his failure to build lasting relationships had hurt him deeply. She just hoped he wasn't using this as some sort of substitute.

Their conversation was interrupted by Wilson's phone ringing. It was bad news about a patient of his, one that Wilson had mentioned in passing to Cuddy a few days ago. None of the doctors in the hospital had been able to diagnose him and the man had just died of liver failure.

"I guess we'll find out what it was at the autopsy," Wilson said, standing up and putting on his labcoat. "Excuse me, I have to go and speak to the family."

He paused with his hand on the door. "We have to do better than this, Cuddy. We can't let people die just because we don't know what's wrong with them."

Wilson left and she muttered to herself. "Yes, okay. Stop people dying, I'll get right onto that."


	5. Chapter 5

_He was failing at Slave Training 101. Nobody had told him that in so many words, but he knew. Where his classmates got little nods of approval, and the occasional treat, he got punishments and disapproval._

_He wasn't really surprised. Although he'd chosen this option over spending the rest of his life in a prison hell-hole, he didn't relish the thought of serving other people for the next twenty or thirty years. It wasn't in his nature to sit around waiting for orders. And during training they had to be ordered to do everything. You weren't supposed to do anything without being ordered to, and when you did receive an order you were supposed to obey it swiftly and without any show of dissent or resentment whatsoever. Making smart ass comments was definitely on the 'no' list. _

_He'd tried, a little - there was no escape from this and he didn't want to spend all his time being 'disciplined' for infractions - but his very nature meant it was never going to be a success. People didn't change, even when you made them slaves. He couldn't forget what he had been. He couldn't accept that he was now a slave - less than human. _

_Now he knelt before the head instructor with the feeling of having been sent to the principal's office. He'd been kneeling in this position for thirty minutes while the woman ignored him and carried on her with her work and he'd had enough. He shifted his weight and made a sound and she looked up at him, frowning. _

_"Be quiet, slave." _

_"You sent for me. Can we get on with the caning so I can get out of here? It's movie night and I'm missing it." _

_The words tumbled out before he could stop them but he didn't care. This keeping him waiting stuff was all bullshit. There wasn't a movie of course, but they were cutting into what was already a ludicrously small amount of 'free time' the slaves were allowed at the end of the day. _

_The instructor came around the desk and stared down at him. _

_"Your problem, slave, is that you think that you are too good for this. That you are somehow better than the other slaves in your class. In fact you are worse - you are far behind in your training - all of them have made much more progress than you." _

_Yeah, flunking slave training - just as he thought. Big deal. _

_"Luckily we have a process that is designed to help you become a better slave. It will enable you forget what you once were, and adjust to your new life. You'll start treatment immediately. They're ready for you now." _

_As a flutter of anxiety went through him - what the hell did _that_ mean - the door opened and two burly handlers came in. He was taken out of the office and down the corridor to the medical room. There he was fastened on his back to the table, each limb held tight by a restraint. He began struggling but there was no give in the restraints. A gag was placed in his mouth and he couldn't even protest verbally. He watched, helpless, as a drip was inserted in his forearm and the flow started. He couldn't see what drug the bag held but he could feel it entering his veins. _  
_He was left alone for a few minutes and he began to feel numb, disconnected from his body. Whatever the drug was it was taking effect. A technician entered and placed headphones over his ears and a screen was set up in front of his eyes. His head was blocked into place so he was forced to watch the screen. Something was put on his eyelids so he couldn't close them. _

_Images flashed and went, too fast for him to see what they were. A voice whispered in his ears and then he felt the jolt of an electric shock - one much stronger than he'd experienced in training so far. He tried to pull away but he was held tight by the restraints. _

_Over and over again the process repeated until he couldn't think anymore. There was only the images, the sound and then the pain. He tried to scream but the gag stopped even that. _

_When they released him from the table he followed them numbly out of the room. _

_When they asked him his full name he replied, 'Greg'. _

_When they asked him what he was he said, 'a slave'. _

_When they asked him what he had once been he tried to answer but he found himself on the floor, retching. They told him it was okay, that it was better that he didn't try and think about his past. Then they gave him a treat. _

* * *

Wilson turned up early on the Saturday morning for his Slave Ownership course. He was a little apprehensive about it, but figured if he could survive med school he could survive this. It would be good to learn something about keeping a slave - even if it was knowledge he didn't really expect to use. Greg wasn't going to be a slave to him, so much as some help around the apartment, and someone for Wilson to mentor. He had ideas about getting Greg some education - maybe get him enrolled in a couple of online courses. He wasn't going to be requiring Greg to kneel and call him 'master' or anything like that.

There were two other students in the class. One was an older lady, who wanted a slave 'to help around the house' now that her husband had died. She confided to Wilson that she'd been enjoying a variety of different things since becoming a widower - things that her husband would have disapproved of. Wilson wondered if owning a slave was just another adventure for her, on a level with her trip to South America. The other person was a man who had a business he operated from home and he wanted a slave to help with that. They both politely listened when Wilson explained that he was buying a slave to keep his apartment cleaned - but Wilson had the impression that they thought he had an ulterior motive. The man gave him a knowing wink and slapped him on the back in a hearty fashion that irritated Wilson.

Their instructor turned up ten minutes late and hurriedly handed out some course notes.

"These summarize what you need to know. The legal requirements are the most important thing. The course includes a quiz tomorrow afternoon but don't worry, we'll tell you the answers to that in advance - we want you to pass."

The course was rapid fire. Saturday's sessions covered housing requirements, feeding regulations, insurance, the owner's legal responsibility for their slave and their slave's actions. What duties an owner could legally require of a slave (which apparently was pretty much anything that wasn't a criminal act).

On Sunday they did the practical training. This covered two main areas - the use of slave collars, and discipline. The instructor had a slave with him to demonstrate.

Wilson had seen the collar around Greg's neck of course. It was brown leather, and stamped with Rent-A-Slave's company logo. A small tag hung off it with Greg's name and registration number. It reminded Wilson of the collar his dog used to wear.

The instructor produced a similar looking collar and fitted it to the slave with him so they could see how it fastened. He had them all come close and examine it.

"Your slave must wear a collar at all times. Every owner supplies their own. They can be purchased from any supply store, or through our agency. They're similar to the tracking devices used on criminals on parole. All collars contain a GPS chip which can be programmed to give your slave a radius to roam in - if they stray outside that area, or attempt to tamper with or remove the collar, they receive a shock. You can also trigger a shock manually by using the control." He produced a small device - much like an electronic car key - and pressed a button on it. The collar made a buzzing sound and the slave jerked. Wilson remembered the electrical shock he'd felt when he was touching Greg after he fell down the stairs. That shock had been delivered to Greg merely to get him to return to his supervisor.

"If the slave doesn't immediately return to a safe zone the collar will deliver a larger shock and so forth. The intensity ramps up if the slave persists in straying. At a high level the slave will be incapacitated, and it could even cause death, so you need to be careful what settings you use. If you permanently harm or kill your slave you can be liable for criminal charges. You would have to prove that the higher setting was needed to control the slave."

Wilson had no intention of ever causing Greg to experience any level of shock - let alone a lethal one.

"The collar assists in keeping the slave where he should be but there are times when you may need to administer additional discipline to ensure good behaviour." The instructor continued once they'd all had a chance to examine the control device.

"For private owners there are restrictions on what tools you can use to deliver this discipline. You may use a crop, or a paddle, or a light cane. Blows should be administered only on the buttocks and upper thighs and the skin should not be broken. The number of strokes is limited to ten. Any more than that, or if you want the slave whipped, has to be administered through the Slave Tribunal. You make your case, and they decide on the appropriate punishment and have an expert carry it out - there's a small fee involved of course."

Of course. Wilson was beginning to think that the various levels of Government saw private slave ownership as a great excuse to milk as many taxes and fees out of the owners as they could. Not that that would concern him - he had no intention of taking Greg to the Slave Tribunal for anything - let alone a whipping.

"All those tools can be purchased at the end of this course. We do a discount for a bulk pack of a collar and the tools. Besides physical punishment you should also consider other methods of correction. The slave can be confined to their room for a period of time, or have harsher duties imposed, or be deprived of any privileges that you have granted them. You could take their clothes away for example, or deny them any but the plainest of foods. Physical correction should be a last resort. A skilled slave owner will rarely need to use it."

"Can you demonstrate?" The businessman asked. The older lady taking the course leaned forward in her seat, her eyes alive with interest.

The instructor gave a rueful smile, and Wilson wondered if someone in every course asked the same question. His slave was standing quietly at the front of the room, hands clasped behind him and head bowed.

"I'm sorry but we don't allow physical punishment of the slave unless he's done something to earn it. Rodney is a very well behaved slave. The instruments aren't difficult to use. Just start at below the strength you think you will require and adjust upwards if needed - that way you shouldn't cause more harm than you are legally allowed to. "

"We should be allowed to punish our slaves however we want." The businessman folded his arms, and scowled at both the instructor and his hapless slave. "All these regulations are a load of crap. In the old days you used to take your slave home and keep him however you want to - damn this political correctness nonsense. "

The instructor shrugged. "That may be right, sir. But I can only teach you the law as it stands now. These regulations are designed to protect a valuable asset - society's slaves - from abuse. This enables them to work longer, and harder. Now, moving on..."

By the end of the weekend Wilson had received his certification and had purchased a collar for Greg. He'd firmly refused to buy any 'disciplinary instruments' although he noticed that both of his classmates had bought the complete package.

On Monday his apartment was inspected - including the new lock on the second bedroom door, and the bars on the window - and declared satisfactory. On Wednesday he used his lunch hour to acquire his license - which turned out to be a five minute procedure once he submitted his paperwork.

With all the necessary items in hand he found himself faced with the reality of what he was going to do. He wrote out the check to Rent-a-Slave and turned it over in his hands. It was a lot of money, on top of what he'd already spent, and he couldn't really justify it financially. Even if he were to work Greg hard, he'd never return this sort of value. Doing this was very ill advised. He should forget the whole thing.

Except he couldn't forget Greg, and the way he'd looked the day Wilson had first encountered him. If there was ever somebody who needed a helping hand it was him. He'd made a connection with him and he was committed now. He pulled the phone towards him and dialled the number of Cuddy's contact at Rent-a-Slave.

He was going to buy a slave.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for the reviews for last chapter. I can't reply to the guest reviews but they are appreciated!_

* * *

Morning came with an awareness of pain that blanked out all other thought. Waking up was always the hardest part of the day. He was usually given painkillers after evening meal but the little help they provided always wore off overnight. Over the years since the infarction he'd worked out the best position to sleep in to help and he managed a few hours sleep every night from sheer exhaustion but every morning when he woke up pain gripped his leg tight.

He didn't have long to coax his leg into behaving. After the lights came on and the door opened they only had minutes to get themselves together and to the dining room for morning meal. Any slave who was late didn't eat. He'd skip morning meal if it meant he could lie in bed for a while longer but that wasn't permitted either.

As the other slaves started to get up, he did some quick exercises for his leg. He'd been given some rehab after it happened and he'd absorbed as much of their instructions as he could and over time developed his own system of getting the leg moving in the morning. With gritted teeth he got to his feet when he couldn't delay any longer. He made the bed tidy and picked up his folded clothes from underneath his pillow. The other slaves were on their way out the door as he was still putting on his shorts.

One of them stopped by his bed.

"C'mon on, Greg. You'll be late again."

He ignored him. Chris wasn't as moronic as some of his fellow slaves but he wasn't real bright either. It wasn't like Greg was dawdling for fun - he could barely move. Chris stood there for a few seconds and then shrugged and hurried after the other slaves. Greg grabbed his shirt and went towards the door, pulling the shirt on over his head as he went.

He was last in the door as usual and got the usual whack of a crop on his ass for his tardiness. It stung but against the pain in his leg it was more of a useful distraction than anything. Greg had realised a while ago that his body could only feel one major pain at a time - a technique he used sometimes when the pain in his thigh was bad enough. He'd been taken to the medical room more than once with a self-inflicted wound. Luckily the doctor had never caught on to what he was doing - he just thought Greg was an incredibly stupid and clumsy slave.

The worst thing about being last was that he got the last scrapings of food for his morning meal. Each slave was served up a measured portion but there never seemed to be quite enough for the last slave to get a full bowl. And the stuff at the bottom of the pan was even less appetising than the rest of it.

There was no point in complaining though so he took his bowl, picked up his plastic glass of orange coloured juice and sat at the end of the table.

They ate quickly and without a lot of chatter. They were allowed to talk - quietly - but nobody had much to say to each other. What was there to talk about? Greg knew it was Saturday but Friday night this week had been the same as Friday night any week. Today was a full workday. Tomorrow would be one too. There were no weekends for slaves. All they knew was their work and who wanted to talk about that?

When they were finished they went to the muster room for assignments. Greg was still on the hospital team. He hadn't seen Doctor Wilson for the last few days - but that wasn't surprising as he had been taken off bathroom duty. Apparently someone had complained about him - a fact that had not made his supervisor happy. He'd been set to work in the basement, doing more painting and some cleaning up. He liked it down there, there was a lot less walking than doing the bathrooms, but he did miss that little bit of human contact he'd had with Doctor Wilson. For a few precious minutes somebody had treated him like a human being, almost like someone they wanted to get to know.

In the large muster room he picked up his coveralls from the stack there and stood waiting to be called to the truck.

"Greg - hospital. No, hang on..." The supervisor flipped a sheet of paper. "No, there's a hold on you. Stand over there out of the way."

Greg limped over to the place indicated and waited obediently. The truck to the hospital rolled away without him. He was probably being assigned to another place.

In the next few minutes all the slaves were sent on their way. The company aim, Greg had gathered, was to have every slave rented out for every minute of their working day. Any slave not assigned somewhere was a waste. Sometimes this wasn't achieved and leftover slaves were put to work cleaning their quarters and the rest of the building but it seemed like he was the only one left today.

The supervisor looked over at him.

"Greg, go back to the kitchens - tell them they can have you until ten. Someone will come and get you then."

"Yes, sir."

He turned back the way he had come, tight with apprehension. Any change in routine was not good. He remembered the physical from a couple of weeks ago - he'd heard nothing more about being sold. Maybe this was something to do with that.

He'd been sold a few times since he'd become a slave. None of the moves had been easy. Every place had their own routine, their own expectations of their slaves and mostly you found out the rules the hard way. Settling in with a new group of slaves was also hard. He hadn't even bothered to try and make friends when he came here. He was freshly crippled - sold while he was still recovering from that - and he'd been more concerned about trying to learn to live with the limp, and the pain, than with trying to smooth his way with the other slaves. Before the infarction the work was hard, and mind numbing, but after it his life had become a never ending struggle.

He entered the kitchen and cleared his mind of worry and speculation. It was pointless. Whatever they wanted to do to him next there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

"We don't normally sell our slaves, Doctor Wilson - not on an individual basis anyway." Michael Ashworth, the manager of Rent-A-Slave (New Jersey office) explained.

Wilson has already handed over his check, and Ashworth had verified his license. They were sitting in Ashworth's plush office and Ashworth had sent for Greg. This was about to happen.

"We're making an exception for Greg because in his condition this company is not really the right place for him."

"I'm surprised you bought him in the first place." Wilson admitted, he'd been curious about that. A place that existed to hire out slaves would usually require only fit, strong, slaves.

Ashworth waved a hand. "He was part of a company takeover. We bought out the smaller place that owned him shortly after he was crippled. We would have dumped him off as soon as we could but the previous owner requested as part of the deal that we keep him until we could find him a place that would treat him well. It wasn't easy to find someone who would want a crippled slave."

Wilson had the feeling of being suckered. He wondered if he could have gotten Greg for less than the ten thousand dollar check that was currently sitting on Ashworth's desk if he'd pushed. It had seemed such a small sum for a human life that he hadn't even questioned it.

"Lucky I came along."

Ashworth smiled. "Greg is a good worker despite his disability. We've had no problems with him. He should serve you well."

Both men looked around at the sound of footsteps as Greg and another man approached. Wilson did a quick survey of Greg. He was dressed in a worn pair of shorts and a t-shirt with a pair of flip flops on his feet. He was walking slowly with that severe limp and as usual he was staring at the ground.

"Would you like to inspect him before you take him, Doctor Wilson? You have the full disclosure report I believe but you are quite welcome to check him out yourself. We don't accept returns." Ashworth chuckled softly.

There was no way Wilson wasn't taking Greg with him today so he didn't see the need to subject him to a close examination. He just wanted to get out of here. There was something he found disquieting about the whole company. The plush office and Ashworth's immaculate appearance didn't disguise the fact that this was a company that made money off the back of slaves. And despite the promise to Greg's previous owner they'd kept Greg here for years with no apparent regard for his disability or his limitations.

"No, it's fine."

Ashworth nodded. "Then let's get this done. Have you got his collar?"

Wilson nodded and produced it out of the bag.

"Slave." Ashworth addressed Greg for the first time. "Come and kneel in front of me."

Greg came into the office and knelt down obediently. Wilson could see he was nervous. He seemed very tense.

"Doctor Wilson has purchased you." Ashworth said as he released Greg's collar from around his neck. Greg looked up and glanced at Wilson, his eyes wide. "Go to him, now."

Greg didn't get up, instead shuffling over on his knees until he knelt in front of Wilson. Wilson had an impulse to tell him to stand up but the collar _would_ be easier to fasten like this.

He didn't like to do it - he could see the skin around Greg's neck was calloused from years of wearing a collar, but he had no choice. He slowly fastened it around him. As he did so he gave a reassuring squeeze to Greg's shoulder. Greg flinched slightly and Wilson sighed to himself - it would take time and good treatment before Greg was comfortable with him, he knew that, but he didn't like to see that fear reaction to anything he did. Wilson had given him no reason to distrust him.

He finished adjusting the collar and sat back in his seat. The control to the collar was in his pocket. He'd programmed the GPS chip before he set out. According to the instructions with the collar he was supposed to use the test function to check the shock portion of the collar was working once it was fastened on the slave. Well, there was no way he was doing _that_.

Greg knelt back into position, now closer to him rather than to Ashworth. He looked up briefly to meet Wilson's eyes and then back down at the carpet, his head bowed.

"Do you have clothes for him?" Ashworth asked and Wilson froze. He hadn't thought to bring clothes. Surely he wasn't going to be required to take Greg home naked?

"Would you like to purchase the ones he is wearing?"

Wilson automatically began to reach for his money. How much would an old pair of shorts and a threadbare t-shirt run to anyway?

Ashworth laughed and shook his head. "Sorry, Doctor Wilson, I was just having fun with you. You can keep the clothes - free of charge even."

Wilson felt a flare of anger but restrained it. He didn't need to be throwing anything through a window here. Nothing could go wrong with this purchase. Any doubts he might have had were rapidly dissolving. He had to get Greg out of this place.

"Are we all done?" He asked, already starting to stand.

"Yes, that's all in order. You can take him now. It's been a pleasure, Doctor Wilson."

And just like that, he'd bought a slave

* * *

Greg rose to his feet and fell in behind Doctor Wilson as they left the office. To the right at the end of a corridor was a heavy locked door that led into the main part of the building where the slaves were housed (and where the plush carpet and tasteful furnishings of the offices gave way to bare floor and institutional beds and chairs). Doctor Wilson turned left instead and gestured to a staircase.

"Can you manage the stairs okay, Greg? I can see if they have an elevator."

Greg looked at the staircase. It was carpeted and had handrails along one side. The treads were nice and wide. He was almost insulted that Doctor Wilson though he couldn't walk down it. On the other hand the doctor had first 'met' him after Greg had tumbled down one of the hospital's staircases so he had grounds for thinking that Greg was a useless cripple.

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, waiting for Doctor Wilson to precede him but Wilson made an expansive 'after you' type gesture with his hand. He probably wanted to watch Greg so he could see just how badly he walked.

Greg took hold of the handrail in one hand and walked down as confidently as he could manage. He was aware of Doctor Wilson's following him and that made him feel anxious and on edge. The new collar felt strange around his neck. Greg's old one was more worn and supple, this one was obviously brand new and felt stiff and uncomfortable. Even though he'd had a suspicion that a sale might be coming it was still disconcerting to have changed hands again. He'd been working and living here since the infarction. It was home, as much as he could ever have a home; he knew how things worked here. The hospital was an unknown quantity.

He'd never been in this part of the building of course. He hadn't even been in Mr Ashworth's office before today, and had only seen him a handful of times. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he waited for Doctor Wilson to take the lead again and followed him out a set of glass doors and into a street.

He looked around. They were in what appeared to be a quiet part of town. There were a handful of other premises, and a few people around. For one absurd moment he had the urge to run down the street as fast he could until he was out of sight. The impulse didn't last long - he couldn't run and no doubt his new collar would be as effective as his old for stopping any such attempts. And where would he go anyway? He had no money, no clothes other than what he was wearing and no possessions.

"Car's over here." Doctor Wilson said cheerfully, gesturing to a car on the side of the road, parked close by. Greg looked at it, it was a shiny silver colour and was, according to the badge on the back, a 'Volvo'. Doctor Wilson opened a door on the right and waved Greg into the seat.

Greg sat in the soft seat and stared at the car. He hadn't been in a vehicle where he could see out for many years. They were always transported by truck, or small vehicles with blacked out windows in the back.

His fingers twitched with an urge to explore. There were many buttons and other things in front of him, nothing looked familiar from what he could remember of cars from when he was free, except the steering wheel.

"Seat belt," Doctor Wilson said, settling into his own seat. Greg looked at him, confused and then noticed that Doctor Wilson was pulling a strap across his body. He looked around and found his own and with some fumbling managed to fasten it. Doctor Wilson nodded approvingly and started the car.

"Bet you're glad to get away from there."

Greg stared out of the window at the passing scenery. He'd never seen Rent-A-Slave from the outside before. It looked like an unremarkable warehouse, with no sign of the dozens of slaves that lived their lives there. They were all kept out the back, safely out of sight.

He realised that the doctor was waiting for an answer. He wasn't sure what to say, but he'd learned that you could rarely go wrong agreeing with a freeman.

"Yes, sir."

Doctor Wilson made a sound that Greg couldn't interpret, but he didn't seem happy. Maybe 'yes' had been the wrong answer after all.

"You don't have to call me 'sir' all the time, you know."

Greg was startled. There was one supervisor in the first place that owned him that liked the slaves to call him 'master' but since then it had been 'sir', or 'ma'am' all the time. The freemen had always seemed happy enough with that. As much as anything that a slave did made them happy.  
"What should I call you then, sir?"

"My name is James but most people at the hospital just call me Wilson. You could call me that."

"Yes, sir... "This was going to be hard to get used to. He thought he'd prefer Master but of course it wasn't his choice. "Yes, Wilson."

Doctor Wilson let out a soft sigh and Greg felt his stomach clench - apparently he'd gotten that wrong somehow. It was so difficult dealing with free men.

The doctor didn't say anything else so Greg went back to staring out the windows of the car; trying to take it all in. They were in heavy traffic now and were surrounded by other cars. He could see people in all the surrounding ones. Once or twice someone glanced over to their car but no-one seemed to take special notice of the slave sitting in a car. He wondered, as he sometimes did, what it would be like to be one of those people. What were their lives like? He'd never know.

Doctor Wilson pulled up by the side of the road, in front of some buildings. Greg looked at him in surprise. He'd assumed that the doctor would take him straight to the hospital.

Doctor Wilson smiled at him.

"You can relax, Greg. I know I bought you, but I don't intend to treat you like those people treated you. I'll make sure you get good food, and that you get some therapy for your leg - we'll see if anything can be done about it. You won't have too much to do - my place is pretty small, it won't be anything like cleaning the hospital."

He hadn't been bought for the hospital? But by Doctor Wilson, personally? For his own use? Greg had heard of slaves serving private people before but he had no direct experience of it. He'd been owned by large companies ever since he'd been enslaved.

"I'm to be your slave, sir? Not the hospital?"

"Yes, of course. Mr Ashworth told you that I'd bought you."

"I thought he meant for the hospital."

Doctor Wilson laughed. "No, sorry Greg, you're stuck with me. Come on, get out of the car. We're home."


	7. Chapter 7

Greg got out of the car, still trying to process what Doctor Wilson had told him. He felt even more unsure now than he had before. He didn't know what would be expected of him as a private slave. Did the doctor have other slaves? And why would he want Greg? He'd said something about Greg's duties being light and about him getting treatment for his leg. But he wouldn't have bought Greg just to get him treatment - he must have another reason.

As he followed Doctor Wilson up to the front door of the building a man holding hands with a young child walked past them. The child stared at Greg, and then turned to the man, chattering excitedly. The man quickly glanced at Greg and then looked away, tugging on the boy's hand. As the child was pulled away he kept staring back at Greg.

Doctor Wilson looked back from where he was holding the door open. "Come on, Greg."

Greg hurried as much as he could, taking the couple of steps up to the door and entering the building. They crossed to an elevator where there was a woman already waiting.

The woman looked up and then stared at Greg - her eyes going to his collar. A look of distaste crossed her face and she turned to Doctor Wilson.

"Doctor Wilson? Does that slave belong to you?"

Doctor Wilson looked embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Yes, I bought him today. He's going to help me around the apartment."

The woman raised an eyebrow and moved slightly away from them. When the elevator came they all entered. Greg stood as far into the corner as he could, as he'd been taught, and looked down at the floor. He could feel the woman staring at him and Doctor Wilson appeared uncomfortable. When the elevator stopped and they got off Doctor Wilson sighed.

"Well, everyone in the building will know I have a slave by lunchtime." He crossed to a door and unlocked it. "This is my place." He waved Greg into the apartment.

It was a large place, and Greg looked around, taking in details. His eyes swept the floor and the ceiling, often neglected areas. They were clean, but not immaculate. He could see many places where cleaning would be needed to get the apartment up to a high standard. Once he had achieved that it wouldn't be difficult to keep it at that standard. There was nothing here that would require a full time slave that he could see.

Doctor Wilson was talking - pointing out this and that - and Greg tried to listen and absorb it all. He would be expected to know everything after this - most people didn't like repeating themselves.

"And you room is through here."

He indicated a closed door and stood back. Greg glanced at Doctor Wilson - it wasn't his place to open closed doors in his owner's house - but he nodded encouragingly so Greg pushed the door open. He walked into a large bedroom.

There was a bed twice the size of his old dorm bunk in the middle of the room. It had been made up with sheets and a blanket, with a covering on top of that. There were four pillows in a matching fabric at the head of the bed. Two small tables stood either side of the bed, one had a lamp, the other a couple of colourful magazines.

"There's another blanket in the dresser, and some more sheets," Wilson said, crossing to a chest of drawers and opening them as if to demonstrate. "If you need more pillows, or anything else, let me know."

The floor was carpeted and as Greg looked around he noticed another door. After another nod from Doctor Wilson he went through it into a bathroom. There were large, and clean, towels hanging up and a fresh bar of soap sat by the side of the sink. A few small bottles of liquid sat on the counter. There was a shower with a glass sliding door in one corner and a toilet in another.

"This is your bathroom. I wasn't sure what you used so I just got you the same shampoo as mine." Doctor Wilson was looking at him, almost nervously. Greg had no idea why.

"This is for me to use, sir?" Greg clarified - it wouldn't do to use this beautiful bathroom if he wasn't supposed to. He looked at the toilet. The toilet paper was soft and had what appeared to be little ducks printed on it. This room couldn't be for him.

"Of course. I have my own." Doctor Wilson answered. He made a vague gesture towards the window. "Sorry about the bars, they're a requirement."

Greg glanced up at the window in the bathroom, it had bars over it. The bedroom window was also barred. His old dorm didn't even have a window - why would he care about bars?

He went back into the bedroom. For one moment he wanted to throw himself down on the bed and try it out. It looked incredibly soft compared to his old one - the bedding was warm and luxurious. He had his own bathroom. Doctor Wilson had bought him some shampoo, and some soap to use. _He had his own toilet._

"We need to get you some clothes - my things won't fit you." Doctor Wilson continued, his words coming fast. He was rubbing the back of his neck again. "Some shoes as well, those flip flops can't be very good for your feet."

"Yes, sir." Greg said when Doctor Wilson paused and looked at him expectantly. Doctor Wilson looked a little disappointed. Greg realised he'd been saying 'sir' again - it was a hard habit to break. "Yes, Wilson," he amended. It still sounded odd to him. Doctor Wilson didn't look any happier.

He stared again at the bedroom - taking in all the details. The cleaning standard here was even higher than in the rest of the apartment, as if it had been freshly done. Greg had once been assigned to a team that cleaned a hotel. The bedrooms there had been like this one. This was a bedroom for a guest, not a slave.

He felt himself begin to tremble.

"Greg? What's the matter?" Doctor Wilson was staring at him. "Sit down, Greg - you look pale."

Greg sat, sinking into the soft surface of the bed, trying not to disturb the cover. He stared at the floor, still trembling.

"Greg, look at me," Doctor Wilson ordered and he looked up. The doctor was looking at him with concern, not contempt, but it didn't help. "What's wrong, Greg? Don't you like the room? Is it the bars?"

Greg swallowed hard. He had to pull himself together. No owner would put up with a slave behaving like this. He didn't know why Doctor Wilson had bought him, but for the chance to stay here, in this room, he needed to show him that he hadn't made a mistake.

"No, sir. Thank you for the room. I'm sorry, sir. I am fine. May I stand up?" He wanted to stand and show Doctor Wilson that he was strong, and he could be useful, but he couldn't without permission.

Instead of granting permission Doctor Wilson sat beside him on the bed, so close that their shoulders were almost touching. Greg held himself away.

"Greg, I know this must be a big change for you. It probably seems very sudden and you haven't had time to adjust. When did they tell you I was buying you?"

Greg was puzzled, Doctor Wilson had been there in Mr Ashworth's office when he was told.

"This morning, sir. When you put your collar on me." He put his hand up but didn't touch the stiff new leather collar around his neck. Touching it wasn't permitted.

"That was the first you knew about it? I thought they would have given you some warning so you could say goodbye to your friends and get ready."

Greg didn't know what to say to that but luckily Doctor Wilson was continuing to talk. "I'm sorry, Greg. I think I've made a lot of wrong assumptions. This is new to me. I've never had much to do with slaves before," he spread his hands and made a sound of amusement. "If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, or you don't understand you need to tell me."

"Yes, sir." Greg said. He had managed to stop shaking, although he still felt light headed. He wished that Doctor Wilson would just tell him his duties and let him start work. Sitting here like this, with a freeman - his owner no less - was making him anxious.

"Look, I think I'll make us both some lunch and then we can talk more about how this is going to work. You stay here while I do that and get settled in." Doctor Wilson looked around the room and frowned. "We really need to get you some more clothes, we'll do that this afternoon." He stood up. "I'll give you a call when lunch is ready."

Before Greg could say anything he hurried off. He didn't shut the door behind him and a few seconds later Greg could hear him working in the kitchen.

He considered what to do. He'd been ordered to sit, and hadn't been told to stand again. But Doctor Wilson had told him to 'get settled in'. Greg had no idea what that meant he was to do. He glanced at the side of the bed. There were two magazines there. One had a picture of a car on front of it, the other a picture of a family. A man and a woman, two smiling kids. They all looked happy. He wondered if 'get settled in' meant that he could look at the magazines. He was tempted for a moment. He sometimes had a very rare opportunity to look through a magazine at a worksite, but they were always quick, snatched moments. Reading for slaves wasn't encouraged. Maybe Doctor Wilson meant he could look at the magazines but maybe he didn't. Maybe he was supposed to start cleaning the room. But he didn't know where the cleaning supplies were and he'd been ordered to stay in this room.

He stayed sitting where he'd been left.

* * *

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he fled Greg's room. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't really it. He'd thought Greg would be pleased at the room he'd prepared for him - it had to be better than a slave would normally have, surely? Instead Greg had started shaking and looked like he was about to faint.

If he could only get some sort of expression of emotion from Greg. It reminded him of doing his Boards. The examiners had received all his answers, right and wrong, with the same blank expression - indicating neither approval nor disapproval. Greg's reactions were so controlled, - and his conversation seemingly limited to 'yes,sir' and 'no,sir' - that it was difficult to work out how he was really feeling. Wilson had to find some way of getting Greg to relax a little so they could get past that.

Food might be a start. Wilson had always used that as a tool when he was striking up a relationship with a new woman. Food was a great icebreaker. He wasn't trying to romance Greg of course, but he _was_ trying to win him over. If matching bed linen hadn't done it maybe food was the answer.

Something along the lines of comfort food would be good he decided. Cheese sandwiches and some tomato soup. Everybody liked that. He knew it wouldn't be a good idea to give Greg too much rich food to start with - he was probably used to a basic diet - but that shouldn't cause him any harm. He himself wouldn't mind a stiff drink, but it was only lunchtime and he wasn't sure if Greg was supposed to drink anyway.

He busied himself with the food preparation, smiling at the irony of the 'master' making food for the 'slave'. Maybe he'd ask Greg to make the meals once he'd settled in - it would give him something to do, make him feel useful. Wilson didn't intend to work Greg like a... well, like a slave, but they were both living here and Wilson would be working full time (and then some), and it would be good if Greg could keep the apartment clean, do the laundry, and make meals. He could even help Wilson with some basic paperwork - filing, maybe he'd be able to do spreadsheets, some typing up of reports. It would be nice to have someone to help.

He finished with the simple meal and went back into the bedroom to call Greg, finding him still sitting on the bed where he'd left him.

Normally he ate in front of the television but he decided to make this first meal a little more formal - and he wanted to talk to Greg anyway. He waved Greg to the dining table and brought the food over.

"I don't know what you like, but I thought cheese sandwiches and tomato soup are pretty much a given."

Greg stared down at the food. He was perched on the edge of his chair, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

"I know it's not gourmet but it should be edible," Wilson said, somewhat sharply, when Greg made no move to eat. "Eat up."

Greg quickly picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened and he took another, more enthusiastic bite. Wilson smiled. At last he seemed to have impressed Greg.

"You like it?"

"Yes, sir." Greg put down the sandwich to answer. "I mean, Wilson."

"You know, when I said not to call me Wilson, not 'sir', I didn't mean you had to put it into every sentence. Just say 'yes' or 'no'. I know you've probably been taught that you should but I don't need you to do that. If you have to call me by name call me Wilson - but otherwise it's not necessary."

Greg looked a little confused and Wilson began to think he should have just left it at 'sir'. Greg would probably relax a little in his own time - when he got used to being around him.

"What I mean is, you don't have to be on formal manners around me. I don't bite."

Greg looked down at the table and then back up at him. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't quite dare.

"What is it, Greg? Did you have a question? It's okay to ask - it's _always_ okay to ask me."

"Why did you buy me?" Greg asked softly, then immediately looked back down at the table.

_I felt sorry for you, _was probably the most honest answer but Wilson wasn't going to say that. He didn't want Greg to think he was some sort of charity case.

"I could use some help around the apartment. I work long hours and I don't have a lot of time." It wasn't the whole truth - he could easily hire a cleaning lady for a fraction of what Greg had cost - but he did want Greg to think he had some value to him. Everybody liked to think they something useful to contribute. "I also want to get you some help for your leg. You should be on a proper medication regime, and in physical therapy. You're in pain a lot of the time, aren't you?"

Greg looked back up at him. "Yes, sir" he said softly. "All the time." The blank expression was still there but there was vulnerability in his eyes. Admitting to pain, even if it was obvious from the way the moved, was admitting to weakness.

Wilson nodded. "We can do something about that. Call this a mutually beneficial relationship."

Greg didn't look convinced and Wilson didn't think he could blame him. He had a feeling that no-one had done anything for Greg's benefit for a long time. Well, Greg would find out in time that Wilson meant him no harm - and only wanted to help him.

"Eat your lunch, Greg." He pointed to the remaining food on Greg's plate. The conversation had interrupted Greg's hearty eating. Greg cautiously picked up the remains of his sandwich and finished eating it, his eyes flicking from the food to Wilson the whole time. When he was finished Wilson gave him two painkillers. He'd discovered that slaves couldn't be prescribed narcotics unless they were actually in a hospital, so he'd had to settle for over the counter pills. A regular schedule of those and some ibuprofen should at least help Greg's pain levels. With a reduced work schedule and the therapy he intended to get him he should be a lot more comfortable.

After they'd finished eating Wilson showed Greg how to stack the dishwasher with their plates. Greg watched him seriously and listened intently as Wilson told him how the machine was operated. Greg was showing no signs of his earlier indisposition so Wilson decided to press on with his plans for the day. He really needed to get Greg some clothes - the threadbare t-shirt and shorts he was wearing wouldn't last too many more washes - and besides he was sure that Greg would appreciate some better clothes. Before going out he had one more thing to show Greg.

He produced it from its hiding place in the hall closet and gave it to Greg.

"You can use this to help you walk," he said. It had been an impulse purchase. He'd been shopping for some furniture for Greg's bedroom when he'd spied the cane in a corner of the shop. It wasn't really ideal - Greg still needed to be assessed by a therapist who would probably recommend a multi footed cane to start with at least - but Wilson hoped it would convey his good intentions at least. Greg could use it this afternoon when they went shopping - it would have to make walking a little easier for him.

Greg held the wooden cane in his hands and stared down at it. It was a nice one, with a hook handle. It was clear that he wasn't really sure what it was.

"It's a cane," Wilson told him. Greg looked at him, his eyes wide and his body tense. Wilson was puzzled until he remembered the slave training course. Slaves could be caned. Probably Greg had been at some time in the past. He couldn't really think that Wilson was going to lay into him with this heavy wooden cane though, could he?

"It's a _walking_ cane," he said. "Here, you hold it like this." He showed Greg, placing his fingers around the top of the cane. "Now try walking with it, use the hallway."

It took a few traverses of the hallway but Greg was soon moving more confidently with the cane. He was lopsided as he walked, his weight coming down over the cane but he moved quicker and easier than he did without it. He stopped and picked it up, running a hand over it. He looked up at Wilson who was watching him.

"You bought this for me, sir?"

"Yes. We'll get you to a therapist and get you assessed to see what sort of aid would be best for you, but I thought that would be better than nothing."

"My leg doesn't hurt as much when I use this."

"That's great. I'm glad it helps."

Greg nodded and did one more lap of the hallway, pausing to stare into his open bedroom door. When he returned to Wilson there was a small smile on his face.

"Thank you, Wilson."

Wilson returned the smile, pleased. "You're welcome, Greg."


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson had never enjoyed clothes shopping with any of his wives, and he enjoyed it even less with Greg in tow. As it had been for the trip to the apartment Greg's attention during the drive was focused on the activity in the busy Princeton streets. His eyes were wide as he looked around them, at the buildings, at the people, at the other cars. Wilson guessed he hadn't really seen much the last few years outside of the Rent A Slave headquarters and the various places he'd worked. From his reaction all this was new to him.

When they parked at the mall and walked to the stores Greg visibly tensed. He was moving more easily with the cane but they still attracted attention. Private slaves weren't common in this part of Princeton and the cane and limp made Greg even more conspicuous. People stared, and then looked away. Wilson wasn't sure how much Greg was taking in but he noticed that as they entered the more crowded parts of the mall, packed with Saturday afternoon shoppers, that Greg moved closer to him, practically brushing shoulders as they walked. His head went down and he stared steadfastly at the ground.

"Hey, watch out!" Wilson turned and saw Greg stumbling and a young man standing staring at him. "Get out of the way, slave."

Wilson reached out and steadied Greg, who had shrunk in on himself, and then turned to the youth. "Is there a problem?"

"Your fucking slave got in my way. Maybe you should put him on a leash. Woof! Woof!" The man's friends laughed and Wilson struggled to control his temper.

He spread his hands. "Well, I'm sorry, but there's no harm done." He turned to Greg. "Come on, Greg." They moved off rapidly, although Wilson kept a corner of his eye on the youth. He heard a mocking 'come on, Greg' behind him and more laughter and barking but didn't turn around.

"You okay?" He asked Greg as they neared the clothing store Wilson had in mind.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault and you didn't hurt him." Greg didn't seem convinced, he still stared anxiously at the ground and Wilson decided to get on with this and get out of here. He entered the store, a place where he bought almost all of his own casual clothes.

When he entered a sales assistant looked up and then hurried over. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't bring the slave in - company policy." He pointed at a small sign by the counter - 'No drinks, no food, no pets, no slaves'. "You need to leave him outside." Wilson considered for a moment going in and grabbing some clothes for Greg - he could always estimate his size - but the idea of leaving Greg sitting on a bench outside the shop alone didn't appeal after the encounter they'd just had.

He tried another three stores with the same result. He was getting steadily more frustrated. Surely there had to a way to buy a slave new clothes?

In the end they went to Walmart. It wasn't a place that Wilson usually enjoyed visiting and he didn't this time. They made it in the door unhindered by security but Wilson could still see that people were watching them. That damned collar was so conspicuous that everyone in the store could instantly tell Greg was a slave. Parents moved their small children out of the way as they approached.

Greg made no verbal protest but his eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the ground and when Wilson stopped in the men's section and began asking him what he wanted to wear he answered monosyllabically with the general gist being that whatever Wilson wanted to buy was fine with him.

Eventually Wilson began buying things more or less at random, guessing at Greg's size - he was _not_ going to try and take a slave into the fitting room - being refused entry to the fitting rooms at Walmart would be a new low. He reasoned that anything would be better than the clothes Greg had on now. He'd get Greg to try them on at home, and once he had a good idea of his size he'd go to one of his usual shops by himself and get him some better clothes.

He picked out some jeans, and a variety of tee shirts and some button down shirts which would be useful when he took Greg out places, they could be used to make his collar a little bit less obvious. Hiding it totally with a rolltop was tempting but was against regulations according to the course he'd attended. Greg was pushing the cart, and he looked surprised as Wilson began dumping more clothes into it.

"I'm _not_ making another trip any time soon, so we'd better stock up," Wilson explained, adding some underwear and socks to the pile. He threw in a lightweight jacket - he'd get Greg a better one and a coat when it was closer to winter. "Can you think of anything else?"

Greg looked up at him and then back at the ground. "No, sir," came the expected reply and Wilson resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

"Well, shoes would be a good bet don't you think?"

Luckily the shoe department had one of those measure yourself devices and he got Greg to do that. Two pairs of sneakers joined the growing pile. He hoped they would fit, but he doubted Greg would ever admit if they didn't.

At the checkout Greg stood close to him, hiding behind him - if you could call it hiding when he was a couple of inches taller than Wilson. On impulse Wilson grabbed a stack of candy bars from the handy display and added them to his purchase. He watched as Greg's eyes followed them and smiled. Greg might not be very interested in clothes shopping but apparently candy bars were a different matter.

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief when he got back in the car.

"At least you'll have something to put in your closet now," he said, head turning towards his silent companion. "When we get back you can throw those old clothes away and change into your new ones."

There was the usual pause and then Greg answered, predictably, 'yes, sir'.

Wilson was tempted to bang his head against the steering wheel but reasoned that wouldn't be very productive - besides being likely to scare Greg - so instead he put the car into gear and drove off.

* * *

Greg went to his room as ordered when they returned to the apartment with his arms full of clothes. Doctor Wilson had spent a lot of money buying them, and the shoes. Greg wasn't sure why he needed so many clothes - for years he'd had one set at a time. When it was time for those to be washed they'd be given another set out of the store of clothes. If you were lucky the size wasn't too far off yours. The shorts and tee he was wearing didn't fit too badly, and he'd only been wearing them a couple of days so they still smelled okay. Still, Doctor Wilson had told him to change out of them so he stripped down.

He was glad to be back in the apartment. The car journey had been enthralling but the crowds in the mall, and the hostility of some of the people had frightened him. He wasn't used to having this much contact with free people, or the free world. He hadn't recognised many of the things in the stores, and the clothes had been a bewildering array to choose from. He had been glad when Doctor Wilson had taken over the selection and relieved when he hadn't been ordered to strip down and try the clothes on in the middle of the crowded store.

After donning a pair of boxer shorts he reached for the jeans. They fitted well enough, except for being a little loose around the waist. Greg reached for the belt and with some fiddling managed to get it threaded through the loops. The new denim was stiff and a little uncomfortable against his scar but he'd get used to that. He pulled the first t-shirt over his head, again a little loose but not too bad and after some hesitation selected one of the button down shirts.

There was a mirror in his room and he moved over to it. He was surprised how different he looked in these clothes. Smarter. The shirt even went up over his collar a little bit, not hiding it but making it less conspicuous. If he did up the top button and pulled it up maybe it would hide it completely. His fingers drifted in that direction. The small light on the collar was glowing - a sign that it was receiving a signal from the unit that Doctor Wilson possessed. The doctor hadn't used it once on Greg so far, not even to call him out of this room.

He left his shirt the way it was and picked up his discarded clothes. Doctor Wilson had said to throw them away but Greg was reluctant. They still had a lot of wear in them, and they weren't his of course. They belonged to Rent A Slave. Unless Doctor Wilson had been gifted them when he bought Greg.

"Hey, you look good." Doctor Wilson poked his head through the open doorway - Greg must have been taking too long. "Those your old clothes? Here, give them to me."

Greg handed them over and the doctor took them with an expression of distaste.

"Everything fit okay? Have you tried the shoes on?"

"Yes, sir. No, sir." Greg sat on the bed to pull socks and shoes on, he couldn't manage to do it while standing. As his owner waited he put both on, fumbling with the fastening on the sneakers.

"Walk around in them, make sure they fit." Wilson ordered and Greg obediently walked around the room, holding his cane tightly. They felt strange but at the same time the sneakers seemed to give more support to his leg. Between them and the cane Greg was walking far better than he had for a long time and the pain wasn't too bad.

Doctor Wilson looked pleased. "You look much more respectable. Hang the rest of the clothes up and I'll get rid of the old ones. There's a game on if you want to come watch it. We'll get some takeout for dinner; pizza, Thai or Chinese - your choice."

He disappeared without waiting for an answer and Greg obediently hung up the rest of his new clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror again. At the beginning of the day he'd been expecting to go to the hospital and spend a long day cleaning. Then he would have returned to his dorm, had showers and evening meal and slept in a cramped room with twenty other slaves. Now he was here, in the apartment of a doctor from the hospital. He'd been taken out shopping, and supplied with clothes, and he was to go and watch a 'game' with his new owner and then choose what they should have for dinner. So far he hadn't been put to work at all. He felt lost, confused about what his function here was.

He'd seen slaves in the past given special treatment by their owners. Wherever he'd been kept there had usually been supervisors who would supply a slave with treats and better treatment in return for what Greg presumed to be sex - although the slaves never talked about it when they returned from being taken. Nobody had ever selected him to be a 'special slave', even when he was fit, it seemed highly unlikely that Doctor Wilson had a preference for middle aged, crippled, broken down slaves.

A couple of slaves he'd met had been owned by an individual, and then sold to a company when they were no longer required. They hadn't talked much about what their lives had been like, or what they had done, but neither of them had boasted about having their own bathrooms and bedrooms. Greg suspected that this arrangement was highly unusual.

Doctor Wilson had said that he bought Greg to keep the apartment clean, and so that Greg could get pain medication and help for his leg. It seemed strange to Greg - this apartment wasn't big enough that he would spend all his time cleaning it - but so far Doctor Wilson had indeed done things to help his leg and hadn't asked anything of Greg. Even if it did turn out that he had bought Greg for sex, that didn't seem to be a bad trade-off for what he was providing. Greg could live with that - he'd endured far worse.

* * *

Wilson found the afternoon and evening surprisingly enjoyable. Greg was still mostly silent but appeared fascinated by the baseball game in the afternoon, and a couple of movies Wilson put on in the evening. He sat stiffly in a chair to start with but gradually relaxed a little, although he was still attentive to anything Wilson said, and any move he made.

Choosing what to have for dinner appeared to be beyond Greg and Wilson took pity on him quickly and settled on pizza. He wondered when the last time Greg had pizza was. Probably years. After some hesitation he gave Greg a beer to have with dinner - it wasn't like anyone would know and one beer wouldn't hurt him - even if he had been abstinent for a long time. Greg had seemed to enjoy it after some initial hesitation. They'd broken out the candy bars Wilson had grabbed at Walmart for dessert.

Wilson found himself enjoying the company - he'd been alone in the apartment for months now, and having Greg around was at least better than the echoing silence. If he could just get Greg to relax a little it would be even better. He would normally ask a new friend about their family, and their background but he knew that any questions like that triggered an unpleasant response in Greg. He'd have to find out if there was a way to reverse that, and how involved it would be. Greg might be a slave now, but once he had been free, and he had a right to remember those times - even if they were painful. Besides, Wilson was curious about what he could have done to earn such a long sentence. He couldn't imagine the timid, withdrawn man ever being violent.

He noticed that Greg appeared to be getting tired relatively early in the evening and wondered how long he'd been up, and what time he usually slept. He figured that the slaves probably started their work day early - they'd always been at the hospital by the time he arrived in the morning. And today had been a big day for Greg - no wonder he was tired. At his suggestion Greg went off to bed before ten and when he passed his open door later that evening he was sound asleep. The bedroom was still as neat and clean as when Greg first entered it, the clothing all hung away, and the only addition that could be seen was the walking cane which was propped up next to Greg's bed.

Fairly happy with the way the first day had gone Wilson went to bed himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg was momentarily disoriented when he woke up the next day with light coming in the window and the door already open. Then he remembered.

Doctor Wilson hadn't locked him in last night when he'd told him to go to his bedroom. Greg had expected that he would close and lock the door when he himself went to bed but either that hadn't happened or he'd already unlocked it this morning and Greg hadn't woken up.

The former seemed more likely. If Doctor Wilson had unlocked and opened the door this morning he would have ordered him to get up.

He lay in bed listening but he couldn't hear any movement elsewhere in the apartment. He got up quietly and went to the open door and peered out cautiously. He could just see Doctor Wilson's bedroom door from here and it was closed. He still couldn't hear anything. He went back and sat on the bed and rubbed at his thigh - just then registering that for once the pain hadn't been excruciating this morning. He'd been given painkillers with evening meal last night, and of course he'd had the cane for the afternoon and done no work for the entire day - that must be the difference.

He went through his usual exercises for his leg anyway, enjoying that for once he could do them at his own pace, and then stood up. He carefully made his bed, remembering exactly how it had been the day before and leaving it as pristine as it was then. He reached under the pillow for his clothes before remembering that he'd hung them in the closet - _his closet_ - the night before. Leaving them there for now he limped to the bathroom and relieved himself. No line of slaves at a trough here, just a gleaming clean porcelain toilet all to himself. He carefully cleaned it after his use and then contemplated the shower.

He'd love to have one. Just the thought of standing in there, all by himself was enticing. There was a hot water tap too. He hadn't had a hot shower for a long time, or a shower by himself. He looked back through the open door to the bedroom, unsure. What would happen if Doctor Wilson called for him and he was showering in here? Was he even allowed to shower whenever he wanted? He'd been told that the bathroom was for his own use but that didn't mean there weren't set times for its usage - or conditions. Using a toilet was one thing, having a shower was taking much more of a liberty.

In the end he opted for a quick wash at the sink. The hot water tap there worked and he revelled in the feel of it on his skin. He did a thorough job and then dried himself on one of the towels, carefully hanging it back up afterwards. Then he cleaned down the sink as best he could with the materials on hand.

He donned the clothes from yesterday and again contemplated himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. He'd been shaved two days ago but he was due another. The handlers at Rent-a-Slave kept all the males slaves clean shaven - doing them in the slaves' 'free time' at the end of the day. He guessed that either Doctor Wilson would do it here, or allow him to do it.

Dressed and ready for the day he went over to the door again and listened. Still no sound, and the other bedroom door was still shut. When he looked out of the window he could see that the sun was well up in the sky. He wondered how long the Doctor was going to sleep and what he was supposed to do until he woke up and issued instructions. He looked out of the window for a while but the view was restricted by the building next door and his leg was beginning to hurt because he was standing still. He turned away and looked around the room.

There was a chair in one corner so he sat there rather than disturb the carefully made bed. His gaze lit upon the magazines placed on the table by the bed. He glanced at the door again and then went over and picked one of them up.

He leafed through the pages hungrily, a lot of it meant nothing to him but the pictures were interesting. When he'd gone through once he settled down to read it from the beginning, one article at a time. He kept an ear out for any sound of the other door opening.

* * *

Mindful that he was no longer alone in the apartment Wilson slipped on some sweats when he woke up. He was still yawning as he walked down the hallway. He always liked to sleep late on Sunday, the one day he tried to avoid the hospital if he could possibly help it. He wondered if Greg was awake yet and if so what he was up to. Wilson didn't have any firm plans for them for the day but he was pretty sure that Greg wouldn't say no to breakfast.

When he got to Greg's room the door was open and Greg was sitting inside on the chair, fully dressed, not doing anything - just sitting there. Wilson had a flashback to the time he and Bonnie had stayed with her parents for Thanksgiving. They hadn't been married then, just dating, and it was the first time he'd met her parents. He'd woken up early, long before Bonnie, but had been reluctant to start wandering around the house. Greg must feel like that, a guest in a stranger's house.

"'Morning Greg, want some breakfast?"

"Good morning. Yes, sir." Greg got up and walked slightly behind him as they made their way to the kitchen.

Once there Wilson waved Greg to a stool at the counter. Greg hesitated a little but then took a seat. Wilson noticed that he was still carrying his cane - he hadn't put it down as far as Wilson could remember since he'd given it to him. "So, what did you normally have for breakfast at that place?"

There was the usual slight pause and then Greg moved his shoulders it what might have been a shrug. "I think it was supposed to be oatmeal."

Again the flash of dry humour. Somewhere beneath that bland slavish facade was a real personality, Wilson was sure of it. He made a face. "That good huh? Well, I think we can do better than that. Eggs? Pancakes?" At Greg's eager look, quickly hidden, he took out the ingredients for both.

"Did you sleep well? Have you been awake long?"

"Yes, sir. The bed is very comfortable. I'm not sure when I woke up."

"Oh, I didn't put a clock in your room did I? Sorry, guess we're all so used to having phones these days. I'll find one for you." He cracked the eggs into a bowl. "When you wake up you're quite welcome to wander around out here. You live here now, my apartment is your apartment." He waved a hand around to indicate. "I want you to make yourself at home."

Greg looked doubtful and Wilson thought he was still missing something. Maybe he could find out what it was if he could find out more about what Greg's life used to be like. He put the eggs aside and started on the pancake batter.

"Tell me about what it was like working for Rent-A-Slave. Did you have a set time for getting up?"

"Yes, sir. When they unlocked the door we had to get up and get changed and go to morning meal straight away."

"You were locked in your room at night?"

"Yes, sir. All the dorms were locked at night by the handlers, and then opened the next morning."

Wilson realised that Greg's door had been open since he arrived, even when he was changing clothes yesterday. He thought it had been a deliberate choice, now he realised it hadn't been. Greg had been expecting to be shut in the room when Wilson wanted him there, and only released when Wilson was ready for him. No wonder he hadn't left the room this morning.

Well, it was time for Greg to realise that those times were behind him. Wilson had no intention of micro-managing his life like that.

"You know you can shut your own door whenever you want, don't you? I'm not going to do it, and I'm sure as hell not going to lock you in at night. The lock is only there because there's some regulation that says it has to be, same as the bars. Shut it, keep it open, it's your choice."

Greg looked at him with wide eyes. Wilson was right - the idea of shutting his own door apparently hadn't even occurred to him. Wilson realised he really didn't have a clue what he was doing here with regards to Greg's mental state. He had thought he'd be concentrating on Greg's physical condition but maybe that was going to be the easy part.

"I mean it Greg, you want to keep the door shut you keep it shut. You want to open it, you open it. And you can go in and out of the room whenever you want. It's not a cage, it's your bedroom - it's _yours_. "

There was a silence as Greg digested that. Wilson noticed that he was fiddling with the cane, swinging it a little in a half circle and then back, his fingers playing over its head. He stopped as soon as he saw Wilson watching him.

"Yes, sir." Greg said finally. Then he took a breath, as if girding himself for a difficult task. "And the bathroom, sir?"

Wilson nodded firmly. "And the bathroom. Shower when you want, take a piss whenever you want. I'd appreciate you kept them both fairly clean and tidy but it doesn't look like you have a problem with that."

"No, sir. I will keep them very clean, sir." He glanced towards the hallway, as if wondering if he could retreat there right now.

"I guess this is all a bit odd to you isn't it? I guess you've been living in dorms for a very long time. When was the last time you lived in a house or an apartment?"

"When I was free." Greg's voice was soft.

"Do you remember it?"

Greg shook his head. "If I try and remember I get sick. I'm not supposed to. They told me it was better if I didn't think about it."

"Maybe you can try now? Just a little. I'm here if you get sick."

"I don'... I don't know if I want to remember, sir." Greg said, beginning to fiddle with the cane again.

Wilson flipped some pancakes, thinking. He couldn't imagine not wanting to know - but then he couldn't imagine what Greg's life had been like since he was enslaved. Maybe the only way Greg could survive the present was to forget the past. That might change now his present had become more bearable but Wilson wasn't going to push it for now. He slid a plate of food across to Greg and then made up his own and took a seat at the counter next to him.

Greg started with his pancakes - at first approaching them cautiously but then more enthusiastically. It was clear that any further conversation was going to wait until after he'd finished eating, but that was fine with Wilson. Greg had already talked more this morning than he had for the entire day yesterday.

* * *

Greg's second day with his new owner passed quickly. Doctor Wilson asked him if he 'wouldn't mind' stacking the dishwasher. Luckily the doctor had shown him how yesterday and Greg painstakingly followed the instructions he'd been given then. He felt a sense of satisfaction in fulfilling the first task given to him by his new owner. So far Doctor Wilson hadn't really asked him to do any work, which was a change from his previous experience but also made him uneasy. If he couldn't prove useful to his new owner he might be sold back, or sold on to someone else. The last day had been enough to convince Greg that it would be his advantage to stay here.

While the doctor showered and got dressed Greg cleaned the surfaces of the kitchen with the supplies that Wilson had pointed out the day before. The doctor had vaguely suggested that the kitchen could do with some cleaning before declaring he was going to have a shower. Greg had realised by now that any orders he received were going to be delivered in this manner so he wasted no time getting to work.

As he worked he thought about what Wilson had suggested - that he try and remember his past. Being in this apartment was bringing up flashes of memories, almost as if he was looking at them from the outside. Of sitting at a breakfast counter like this one, while someone served him food. Of sleeping in a warm bed. The game on the television yesterday had been like that. He'd done that before he thought - many times. But when he tried to focus in on those memories he felt the familiar stab of pain in his head and the churning in his stomach. He pushed them away again and focused on the simple action of cleaning - letting the purely mechanical process lull him into that state of grey existence he'd been in for so many years.

Did he _want_ to remember? He wasn't sure. He knew that he had been in prison before he was r enslaved, they'd told him that. He'd been a violent criminal and given a chance at redemption by agreeing to be enslaved. He couldn't remember making that decision, and on many days he'd wondered how his younger self could possibly have thought it was a good idea. Prison couldn't be worse than slavery, he thought. Whatever he had been, whatever he had done, that had led to that decision was something he wasn't sure he ever wanted to face.

When Doctor Wilson came back to the kitchen he had progressed to cleaning the walls. He paused in his work, waiting for correction - or instruction - but it didn't come. Instead Wilson started pulling out supplies and joined him.

"About time I had a spring cleaning," he said. "But the game starts at one - it's a double header, we don't want to miss that."

They worked together for the rest of the morning. At first it made Greg nervous. He had never had a supervisor actually work beside him for such a long period of time. He gradually realised that Doctor Wilson wasn't judging his work, or making sure that Greg wasn't slacking off, he was just helping him do it. It was strange, and a little unsettling, but the work went easier.

Doctor Wilson called a halt to their efforts at one and put another baseball game on television. He fetched them both lunch, and various snacks during the game and as Greg sat and watched the large television, and ate the food, he couldn't help thinking there had to be some sort of catch to this. His existence couldn't have gone from the sheer grind of working for Rent a Slave to this life of leisure in two days. It wasn't possible. He wasn't that lucky. Still, even if there was a catch he decided he was going to enjoy it while he could - and do everything he could to persuade Doctor Wilson that he was worth keeping.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks for all the reviews - to those posting without an account I can't respond to you individually but your comments are appreciated! It's always nice to know that people are enjoying the story!_

_To quickly answer a couple of questions - no, I don't think this story is going to have 'Hilson' in it, although there may eventually be subtext (there's always subtext!) . For the question of Wilson being a bit clueless about slaves - mostly I think that comes from his lack of direct experience with their day to day lives. Most ordinary people in this AU have very little to do with slaves, and only a vague idea of how they live their lives. Greg's pause when he answers Wilson's questions is mostly him carefully considering his answer, and also he's just plain not used to people asking his opinion about anything! And the clock in chapter seven has now mysteriously turned into a lamp :) (Good spotting, Lurka - sorry, one of the hazards of writing as you go :)_

_Now, onto the next chapter._

* * *

Cuddy and Wilson generally met for lunch when their schedules allowed for it- which wasn't often. Cuddy made sure she had time for him that Monday though. After all, the weekend had been a big one for Wilson and she was curious to know how it had gone. She was predicting a trainwreck, later if not sooner, and Wilson might need a shoulder to cry on.

He'd suggesting bringing their food back to her office and she'd agreed. There were some things that were better discussed out of the hearing of the hospital's amazingly efficient grapevine.

"So, how did it go? Did you buy him a nice collar?"

"Not funny, Cuddy." Wilson stabbed at a stray tomato, luckily avoiding splattering it all over white blouse. Wilson was so distracted he hadn't even spared her his normal covert glance at her cleavage. He looked down at the phone he'd been holding like a lifeline. "Did you know there's an app to track the GPS on his collar? I could even shock him if I wanted to. All from the comfort of my nice office." He threw the phone down on the table.

"I hope you set the collar to at least buzz if he starts wandering through Princeton."

Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "I had to set the limit to just outside the apartment door and let him know. He looked at me like I had two heads - I don't think it would even occur to him to set foot outside the apartment without a direct order. He wouldn't even leave his room the first morning without me coming and getting him."

"He's a slave - he's used to having people tell him what to do. You just need to be clear in your orders to him. Did you leave him a schedule for the day?"

"What? No." Wilson shook his head. I'm not going to be like those Rent-A-Slave people, making him work hard all day. If he feels like doing any cleaning or whatever that's fine, but I'm not going to be ordering him around. I want him to be able to trust me."

"You want him to_ like_ you." Cuddy said. It was one of Wilson's biggest problems - he wanted everyone to like him. Which of course they did, everybody adored Wilson. Year after year he was voted the hospital's most popular doctor. He could have had his pick of half the staff (and Cuddy knew he'd been through a fair few of them) but he never seemed to get really close to anyone, with the possible exception of herself. She wasn't sure what he was searching for - but he hadn't found it yet.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Wilson said defensively.

"Think about it this way. You run one of the largest departments in the hospital. Do you leave your staff without any instructions? Does everyone in the department just do whatever they want?"

"Of course not," Wilson said as Cuddy had expected. Wilson ran a tight ship, everyone knew that. Beneath that teddy bear exterior was a hard, but fair, taskmaster. Wilson hadn't become the youngest department head the hospital had ever had by accident. "But that's different. They're being paid, and they have a choice. Greg doesn't."

"So instead of that you've just left him in your apartment, probably told him to make himself at home, maybe threw in some vague hint that he could clean up a little bit if he really wanted to, and wished him a good day?"

Wilson's look said it all and she sighed. "You're a great guy, James, but you're far too soft hearted to be a slave owner."

"I'm not interested in being a 'slave owner'. I just want to help Greg, and I want to treat him like the human being he is. You should see him, Lisa. He's scared to do anything without permission. He watches me constantly, looking for my slightest sign of approval or disapproval. And yet, he's smart. I know he is. I showed him how to stack the dishwasher on Saturday and he has apparently decided that's his job now and he does it perfectly. Not a thing out of place." Wilson smiled and Cuddy rolled her eyes mentally. Wilson was totally anal about things like dishwasher stacking - they'd had a blow up about it during their very brief time together. She hadn't done it 'right' according to him. "Once he realises that I'm never going to hurt him, ever, he can start exploring what he wants to do with his time."

"I told you, I've had dealings with slaves. Your one is used to structure, and order. He'll be used to eating at a certain time, sleeping at a certain time, and working twelve hour days. You may not be doing him any favours by keeping him on a loose rein - he's not used to that sort of freedom. He won't know what to do with himself."

"I'm not going to tell him what to do every minute of the day. I want him to get used to making his own decisions. Because otherwise it will be like saying I really do own him."

"News flash, Wilson, you really do." She glanced at her watch, and started packing up the lunch debris. "Now don't you wish you'd gotten that cat instead?"

* * *

Greg had missed the significance of Doctor Wilson purchasing him on a Saturday. Of course he'd been home with him for that day and the next - because it was the weekend. Normal people, _free_ people, worked during the week and had weekends off. Wilson had gone back to work that morning.

It had been a contrast to the easy pace of Sunday morning. Doctor Wilson was already awake when Greg woke, and making a large amount of noise by blow drying his hair. Greg had come out of his room - attracted by the noise - and stared at the doctor as he wielded the dryer. He'd never seen a man blow dry his hair before. Not one that he could remember anyway. He touched his own tightly cropped hair. No blow dryer needed there, not that anyone would give one to a slave anyway.

After the blow drying Doctor Wilson had made them both a quick breakfast, just toast, to Greg's disappointment, after the pancakes and eggs yesterday. Then he'd reminded Greg that he wasn't allowed outside the apartment - as if he needed reminding of that - and told him to make himself at home, clean up a little if he 'wanted to', and have a good day. Then he was gone and Greg was alone in the apartment.

It took a moment for his situation to sink in. He was alone. Truly alone for the first time in a long time. He wasn't working amongst other slaves, with a supervisor - or handler - or guard - standing ready to check he was working hard enough, and doing whatever he was doing correctly. He wasn't even in Doctor Wilson's company as he had been all weekend. There was just him alone in this whole, wonderful apartment, _for the entire day_.

He hadn't even been given some onerous task to fulfil. Something that Doctor Wilson could check to make sure Greg had completed when he came home from work. He couldn't fail to complete Doctor Wilson's orders because the doctor hadn't given him any.

Of course that didn't mean that he was automatically exempt from punishment. Greg had been punished before for not fulfilling orders that weren't explicit - things that he somehow should have _just known_ that he was supposed to have done. However he was beginning to believe that his new owner was not like any of his previous owners. Doctor Wilson so far had been nothing but generous and fair with him. He didn't believe Doctor Wilson would punish him for not fulfilling an order he hadn't given.

He'd stacked the dishwasher while the doctor was getting ready for work so his only clearly assigned task was already dealt with. He would clean the apartment - both because Doctor Wilson had suggested that he 'tidy the place up a little if he wanted', and because Greg wanted to make himself useful enough here that he wouldn't be sold, at least not for a while.

Before he started though he thought he could spare a few minutes to just explore this freedom. As a precaution he pulled out some cleaning materials ready, he'd become expert over the years in making it appear at all times that he was working hard - even in those rare moments of rest that he sometimes managed when the handlers were out of sight.

That done, and keeping one ear open for sounds of anyone entering, he wandered the apartment. Although he'd now been here for two days he hadn't really explored it. He had kept his focus on his owner, and what his owner might want of him, rather than his surroundings. Now he examined it more closely.

The living area held both a sound system of some kind, and the large television screen. He'd seen such televisions before, passing glimpses in various workplaces, but never sat down and watched one as he had with Wilson. The picture quality was much improved from the television sets that had existed before he was enslaved. The device that the doctor used to control it was covered with buttons and symbols - most of which were meaningless to him. He had watched yesterday to see how the device was turned on, and he thought he could replicate that. Turning it on was a risk he wasn't quite prepared to take today though. There were other things that interested him more.

The other main feature of the room were the bookcases. There were two large ones, filled with books, and Greg was drawn to those.

He'd read both the magazines that had been left in his room, twice over now. They had been exciting - an enticing glimpse into a world that had been closed to him for years. He'd puzzled over both the articles and the adverts, trying to discern the meaning of words and products he didn't recognise, or had never examined closely. Some of the gadgets were very intriguing, although some he saw no practical purpose for.

But they were only two magazines. Here there were rows of books and magazines, more than he'd seen in one place for a long time. He touched them lightly with his fingertips his eyes scanning their titles. Some appeared to be fiction, but the majority were medical texts. Heavy books, with long titles. He looked around instinctively but nobody was watching of course. He was here alone. He would be for some time.

Carefully, very carefully, he eased one of the books off the shelf and sat down in a chair with it.

He turned to the first page, careful not to crease or damage it. His eyes scanned the list of contents. To his surprise most of the words there were familiar - like old friends he had long forgotten. _He understood them_.

* * *

_Greg lay on the examination table in the clinic. It was a special slaves-only clinic run by the hospital closest to the company he was owned by. He was naked, having been stripped for an examination of his leg and for the insertion of a catheter. The doctor hadn't bothered with much preparation for the catheter, it had hurt worse than his leg going in and was still very uncomfortable. His hands were manacled to either side of the table. Other than those procedures he'd been left alone for some time. _

_The pain had started two days ago. A sharp pain in his thigh when he was finishing his shift. He had rubbed at it, suspecting that he'd merely overworked the muscle. By lights out that evening the pain was so strong he could barely sleep. The supervisor in the morning had eyed him suspiciously when he limped to his work station but told him to stay on duty - there were shorthanded that day._

_By the afternoon the pain was so bad that he found himself unable to work - his hands were shaking and to his shame and fear he had been sick at his work station. He'd been begrudgingly brought to the waiting room of the clinic and dumped there._

_After a two hour wait he'd been taken into this room for an examination. A very young doctor - probably on his first posting out of his internship had seen him. He'd prodded at the leg, causing Greg to writhe in pain, and then he'd inserted the catheter. Then he'd left him alone._

_Greg moaned as the pain intensified. He twisted in his bonds, his back arching off the table as he tried to find a position that would help._

_"Lie still, slave." The doctor had returned, this time with Greg's handler. The doctor crossed to the catheter bag and picked it up. Greg could see it from his position - there was fluid in the bag, but it was a reddish brownish colour. _

_The doctor frowned at it. _

_"I thought he might be malingering... or drug seeking. But there's something wrong. His kidneys are shutting down."_

_"Can you fix him up, doc? He needs to get back to work. We're short staffed." _

_"I don't even know what's wrong with him yet."_

_Greg stared at the bag, trying to distract himself from the pain. Red was the colour of blood, yellow was the colour of urine. This fluid was neither. Something clicked in his head and he knew the answer._

_"Muscle death." He'd spoken aloud and both the doctor and the handler turned to him._

_"The slave said something," the doctor said - as surprised as if the table had started talking. _

_"Dying muscle leaks myoglobin," Greg continued, feeling a wave of satisfaction even through the pain. He didn't know how he knew but he knew. "It's toxic to the kidneys."_

_"Be quiet, Greg." The handler scolded. "I'm sorry, Doc. He's normally pretty placid. He's probably a bit spooked by being here. These slaves like their routine. Do you want me to gag him?"_

_The doctor was still staring at him. "He could be right. It fits. How did you know that, slave?"_

_"I used to..." Greg felt a familiar sharp pain go through his head, even drowning out the pain in his leg. He rolled his head to one side and began to vomit again, his whole body shaking and trembling. The doctor called out for a nurse and in the process of cleaning the mess up his question remained unanswered. _

* * *

Greg ran his fingers over the words again. He knew them. He remembered them. Just as he had known what was wrong with his leg. When he tried to think where he'd first learned the words the familiar pain came again and he pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could read this book if he wanted. He could read all these books.

He held it tightly to himself for a moment, smiling. Then he carefully closed it and put it back on the shelf. He had work to do.

* * *

When Wilson returned that evening it was to an immaculate apartment. He prided himself on keeping the apartment clean but now it shone. He'd had a taste of what Greg considered 'cleaning' when he worked with him on the Sunday but left to himself Greg had obviously given the place an extremely thorough going over - Wilson wondered if he'd time to rest or eat.

He found Greg in the kitchen, scrubbing at a small mark on the tiles. He was dressed in his jeans and a tee-shirt, his cane beside him on the floor. He stopped work and knelt up when Wilson approached.

"Greg... you didn't need to do all this." Wilson said, feeling guilty. He'd never meant Greg to spend the whole day cleaning. "Kneeling on the floor like that must hurt your leg. Get up and put those things away. Work's done for the day."

"Yes, sir," Greg said and Wilson fancied he heard a touch of disappointment in his voice. Surely Greg didn't want to keep cleaning? Greg pushed himself to his feet and busied himself with putting the supplies away. Wilson contemplated the immaculate kitchen. If Greg had been working all day he was probably looking forward to dinner, and expecting Wilson to supply something.

Now there was something he could ask Greg to do in the future. And it would give him a useful skill later, for when he was free.

"Do you know how to cook, Greg?"

Greg looked a little startled, and then doubtful. "I saw you cook the pancakes and eggs yesterday. I think I could do those if you want me to, sir."

Wilson shook his head. "No, I didn't mean now. I just mean generally. If you're going to be home while I'm working it would be good if you could put something on for dinner. Sometimes I don't get home until late, and don't feel like cooking. Would you like to do that?"

Again the odd hesitation in Greg's reply, and a puzzled look in his eyes. Wilson wondered who the last person was who asked him what he would _like_ to do.

"Yes, sir." He said eventually. It was impossible to tell if he wanted to do it or not - clearly Wilson's slightest suggestions were being taken as direct orders. Still, it was something for him to do - and if it didn't work out Wilson could just tell him not to keep doing it.

He decided on a simple pasta dish for that night and this time actively involved Greg in cooking it. Again he was struck by his intelligence - Greg quickly picked up on every technique he showed him, remembered where everything was and was careful to put everything back where it belonged. He also seemed genuinely interested so Wilson found himself getting out a couple of cookbooks and showing them to him.

"You can look through these, have a go at some of the recipes. Anything you need that I haven't got I can pick up. Just make me a list." He opened a drawer and took out a folder of instruction manuals. "These are the manuals to everything in the apartment if you ever don't know how something works." Greg seemed drawn to both the books and the manuals - glancing through them quickly and then putting them carefully to one side on the bench, as if they were precious. He resumed slicing tomatoes - his hands working swiftly - but he kept looking at the books.

"You know, if you ever want anything to read you just have to help yourself," Wilson said - waving a hand at the bookcases. It should have occurred to him that a slave might not be used to having ready access to reading material. "I put a couple of magazines in your room but you're welcome to take any that are lying around to read - I have several subscriptions. You'll probably find the medical journals will put you to sleep though." He laughed. "There are some novels as well. I have more but they're in storage. Let me know what you like and I can pick some more up for you."

Greg's eyes flicked to the bookcases although he kept on with the food preparation.

"Thank you, sir," he said eventually in his quiet voice.

Dinner turned out well. They ate in front of the television - a habit Wilson had gotten into since his separation from Julie. He showed Greg how to operate the set, and demonstrated the use of TIVO and the DVD player. The instructions for both were in the folder he'd given Greg earlier but a practical demonstration beat reading the manual anyway. Greg didn't say much but he appeared to absorb the information rapidly.

Wilson put on a movie and started on some paperwork while Greg watched the screen. Wilson noticed that he didn't seem to be paying much attention, instead fidgeting with his cane - which never seemed to be more than an inch from his side.

"Don't like the movie, Greg? We can watch something else." Wilson paused the machine and Greg immediately apologised for his inattention. "It's okay, if there is something else you want to be doing you can go do it. Television watching isn't compulsory."

"No, sir." Greg said seriously. Then he glanced at the bookcases again. "Wilson, can I take a book to my room?" He looked down at the floor and then back up at Wilson. His expression was at once tentative, and a little hopeful.

"Of course - help yourself. It's getting late anyway, I have to finish off these charts but then I'll be going to bed myself."

Greg stood and moved over to the bookcase nearest to him and Wilson watched as he quickly took a paperback novel off the shelf without even really looking at it. He held it tightly to him and moved off, pausing in the doorway.

"Thank you, Wilson."

"You're welcome, Greg. Sleep well."

When Wilson went off to bed he noticed that Greg had shut his bedroom door for the first time.


	11. Chapter 11

Over the next few days Greg worked out a routine for himself. He'd get up at the same time as Doctor Wilson, get dressed quickly and be ready for anything the doctor wanted him to do - which wasn't much, basically it consisted of making coffee and a simple breakfast for them both. Doctor Wilson gave him some painkillers with breakfast, and then left a dose for Greg to take in the middle of the day.

After the doctor had left for work Greg stacked the dishwasher and scrubbed the kitchen clean. Then he gave the whole apartment a clean and tidy until it was spotless. After that he went and had a shower in his bathroom. He hadn't gotten over the wonderful experience of having his own bathroom and being able to shower in private. The warm water was soothing, both to his leg and to his whole body. Between the cane, the consistent doses of painkillers, and his much reduced work schedule he was feeling better than he had in years. He was able to sleep a lot better now, and the good food was helping as well. He had been owned by Doctor Wilson for less than a week, but the change in his living standard was remarkable. If it wasn't for the collar that still sat around his neck he would be almost happy.

After his shower he dressed in a button down shirt and jeans and made his way out to the kitchen for lunch.

Lunch was another novelty to him. At Rent-A-Slave the slaves had been allowed a ten minute break from work, a bottle of water and a ration bar for a midday meal. If they were behind on their work they didn't even receive that.

At first he'd been wary about helping himself to Doctor Wilson's food - fearing that he would take too much, or the wrong thing and be punished. As a slave he'd had all his food given to him - with no choice whatsoever - for many years. Like all the slaves he'd kept his eyes open for any food he could steal that wouldn't be missed - usually scraps of food discarded by free people - but openly helping himself was a different matter. The first day he had taken only small amounts from already opened packets, gradually he had become bolder.

Today he poured himself a glass of water (cold and fresh) and made himself a sandwich. He ate at the kitchen counter, careful not to spill anything on his clothes. He had selected a magazine to read while eating lunch, from Wilson's seeming never ending supply of them.

In his free time when Wilson was at work he'd been reading the medical texts. They were slow going, as he kept coming upon new words and technology that was unfamiliar to him. Also reading them sometimes stirred up the adverse reaction he had to trying to remember anything of his old life. Whatever he had been it must have had something to do with medicine. Sometimes the assault from his own mind and body was enough to make him put down the textbook and take something easier off the shelf, but he always returned to them.

He was careful not to let Doctor Wilson know he was studying the medical books. However tolerant he had been so far Greg suspected that a slave trying to read books that belonged to doctors would be a step too far for him. While he was at home Greg stuck to his magazines and to novels. While Wilson did paperwork or worked on his computer in the evening Greg read and kept an eye on whatever was on television.

Television was at once both fascinating, and frustrating. The people on the screen had little relationship to himself and his life and he found himself growing quickly annoyed with them, and their concerns. But they did showcase the modern world - one that he had been shut out of for so long - and he absorbed all the changes that had happened since he was enslaved. He'd seen glimpses of cell phones, and computers when free people used them but the television programs gave him time to observe their usage more closely. He found out that the GPS technology that powered his collar, had other uses besides the control and punishment of errant slaves.

Once lunch was finished and cleared away, he took a seat on the couch in the living area and read for an hour or so. When the phone rang he answered it, and reassured Doctor Wilson that he was alive, and still in the apartment. The phone calls had come every day. Doctor Wilson didn't seem to trust the collar to do its job of restricting Greg to the apartment - he liked to check in and make sure Greg was still there. Greg always made sure to answer the phone promptly.

After reading and doing another tidy up of the apartment Greg went to the kitchen and started dinner. His first dinner had been a variant of the pasta dish that Wilson had cooked and it had been... not good. It was still better than anything Greg had eaten in his years as a slave but it had obviously not been up to Wilson's standards. When he saw that Wilson could barely eat it Greg had lost his own appetite and waited for Wilson to get angry at him. Instead Wilson had just pushed his plate aside and then helped Greg clean up. While they were doing that he'd told Greg about the first meal he'd cooked himself - which had culminated in him setting his mother's kitchen on fire. Then he'd made a couple of suggestions about where Greg might have gone wrong. Together they'd cooked some eggs and had them instead. The next night Greg had made something edible, and the night after that he'd made something that had made Wilson smile in pleasure.

When his preparation for dinner was finished Greg wandered over to the window in the living room. It overlooked the street and from there he could watch the free people coming and going. Although he was very grateful to Doctor Wilson for buying him, and how he had treated him since, Greg was beginning to feel a little confined within the four walls of this apartment. He hadn't been outside since Saturday. Every company that had owned him had made sure the slaves got some time outside several times a week, even if it was usually just walking around a dirty courtyard. He wouldn't trade where he was now for any of those places, but he liked to stand here and watch and imagine what it must be like to be able to walk around freely where and when you wanted to.

* * *

Wilson ate the last mouthful of his dinner happily. Encouraging Greg to cook had been a good idea. After the first disastrous meal Greg had improved rapidly and tonights dinner had been excellent. He knew Greg had been worried about making mistakes at first, and what Wilson's reaction to them would be, but he seemed to be enjoying the task now. Wilson had to admit it was nice to come home to a spotless apartment and know that dinner would soon be served.

He was enjoying Greg's company now as well. Each day Greg was becoming more and more comfortable with him although he still had a tendency to hang on Wilson's every word and watch him all the time for Wilson's reaction to anything he did.

He'd made it clear to Greg that he didn't expect, or want him, to spend every minute of the day cleaning the apartment. Reading was okay, watching television was okay, just sitting around doing nothing was okay. He noticed that the apartment was still immaculate every time he returned to it but there were signs that Greg was also doing other things. He'd apparently read through the entire folder of instructions for one thing. Greg had asked him where two of the appliances were and Wilson had had to confess they'd long since been discarded but he hadn't thrown the instructions out. Greg had actually looked a little disapproving at that news, much to Wilson's secret amusement.

"That was great, Greg. I can't believe you've only been cooking for four days - you've picked it up so quickly. Do you enjoy doing it?"

Greg looked surprised - like he always looked when Wilson asked him something personal. Then he nodded.

"Yes, sir." He paused again and added, almost shyly. "It's better than cleaning the hospital bathrooms."

WIlson let out a surprised laugh. "I bet it is. Speaking of the hospital - I'm taking you in with me tomorrow. I've made you an appointment at the physical therapy department. Somebody is going to look over the scans of your leg, do an examination and give you some exercises to do."

Greg immediately tensed. "My leg is fine, sir. I can work."

"Yeah, I know you can work, but I want to see if you can be made more comfortable, and whether they can help you with mobility. Remember I said that one of the reasons I... that you came to live here was to help with that?"

"Your have helped, sir. It's much better than it was." Greg gestured to the cane by his side.

"I just want a professional to look at it." It hadn't been easy persuading the chief therapist to fit Greg in. Wilson had chosen a Saturday so there would be less people around, and so that he could take Greg straight home after his appointment but McLoughlin had taken some persuading to allow a slave to receive treatment there. Wilson had had to call in favours and he was still getting the most junior therapist for Greg. The insurance he had for Greg didn't cover physical therapy so he'd been getting a hefty bill from the hospital as well, even with staff discount.

"It will be good to get out of here for a while anyway, won't it? You must be getting a bit tired of being cooped up in here." Wilson said. It had occurred to him that he needed to work in some time outside for Greg. He could hardly expect him to stay cooped up in an apartment 24/7. The hospital wasn't exactly Disneyland but at least it would be a change of scenery.

"Yes, sir." Greg still sounded unconvinced.

"Did you have any therapy at all - when you had the infarction?" Wilson wondered how he had been treated back then - and whether that was behind his reluctance to get it looked at now. From what he'd seen, and found out, slaves didn't fare well in the medical system.

"They had to give me some. I couldn't walk after the operation. The therapist showed me how to walk and gave me some exercises to do if my leg was stiff. They gave me some pain medication to take when I was still in the hospital." Greg looked down at his leg, rubbing slowly at the thigh, as he often did. "One of the therapists told me I should 'visualize the healing'." He looked back up with a small smile.

"Well, I think we can do better than that for you." Wilson stood up and began clearing the dinner things away, Greg quickly got to his feet and helped. They made short work of the clean up and then Wilson reluctantly sat at the table and pulled out his laptop and the folder of budget reports he'd brought home with him. "I've got to get this done, Cuddy is breathing down my neck for the figures, I need to email them to her tonight. If you want to watch television or whatever don't let me stop you. I'll be at this all night."

Greg hovered for a moment, looking a little disappointed - and Wilson had a thought. "Would you like to help me? I have some figures that need inputting on the spreadsheet. If you could do that it would make it quicker. Have you used a spreadsheet before?"

Greg looked hesitant, like he usually did when Wilson asked him about things he might have done when he was free. Though, come to think of it, Greg was enslaved nearly twenty years ago. Any computers or spreadsheets he might have used then would bear little resemblance to the current incarnations, even if he could remember using them.

"I'm not sure," Greg said hesitantly.

"Okay, well, it's not hard. Take a seat and I'll show you."

Greg readily took a seat next to him and Wilson showed him the basics, and which figures he wanted inputting. Then he went back to reading through some reports. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Greg. At first he was slow, hunting around the keyboard for what he wanted and frowning at the screen. Gradually he began to pick up confidence until he was engrossed in what he was doing. As usual it was difficult to tell whether it was something he wanted to be doing but it wasn't Wilson's first choice of a Friday night entertainment activity either. If Greg could help him with things like this it would be handy, and also give Greg some more skills for later.

Pleased with the outcome Wilson concentrated on his own work and the evening passed rapidly.

* * *

Greg dressed in what he thought of as his 'best' clothes the next morning for the trip to the hospital. He could pull the shirt collar up around his slave collar and partially hide it. He had realised how uncomfortable Doctor Wilson was about being seen with a slave when they went out shopping and hoped that this would help somewhat.

He wasn't looking forward to the trip. He didn't like it when people focused on his leg and previous 'assessments' of the injury had not been pleasant. It seemed pointless - there was nothing anyone could do at this point. Greg had examined the scar himself, and felt the lack of muscle beneath the skin. Short of growing that muscle back what could be done?

It was not his place to object to the excursion though. It was something Doctor Wilson wanted done to Greg so it would happen.

The car trip, like previously, was the best part. Greg really enjoyed being in the car, being driven through the city. Nobody could see he was a slave like this and there were no expectations of him. Nothing could go wrong, he just had to sit and enjoy the trip. He had vague memories of driving himself, from the time when he was free. Maybe one day, if he was ever freed, he could do it again. He didn't like to think about the possibility too much. He knew he still had several years of his sentence left and wasn't sure what the process was then - Doctor Wilson currently owned him. If he was still in possession of Greg when that time came would he have a choice about giving him up? That was something they never taught them in slave training, and although some of the slaves talked about it sometimes none of them had a clear idea of the procedure. A few had claimed to know what the law was on the subject once, before they were enslaved - but Greg knew that laws could be changed.

Even if he were freed, what would he do? He had no money, and would have nowhere to go. Any relatives he might have had once would be long scattered, and probably wouldn't want anything to do with a criminal who had been turned into a slave.

No, it was better if he didn't think about the future, or the past.

They pulled up at the front of the hospital. When he'd been here previously the truck had pulled up around the back and all he'd seen was the loading dock before they'd been hustled inside to work. He stuck close to Wilson as they made their way in the front door. There was a security guard standing just inside the door and he greeted Doctor Wilson and then narrowed his eyes at Greg.

"This your slave, doc?"

"Yes. He has an appointment." Doctor Wilson sounded a little annoyed and Greg looked down at the ground. Guards didn't like it if you looked them in the eye.

"Just have to pat him down - standard procedure with slaves. You'll need to stick close to him too. Can't have slaves roaming around the hospital by themselves." The guard turned to Greg. "Stand over there, slave, and put your hands on your head."

"His name is Greg." Wilson said tersely. "Go ahead, Greg. Let's get this over with."

Greg moved away and did as directed. At least he wasn't being told to strip for the search. The guard briskly ran his hands over his body and felt in the pockets of his clothing.

"Okay, that's fine, Doctor Wilson. We'll have to do him when he leaves too. If you need to put him somewhere while you're working we have a cell in the basement we can use for that."

"That won't be necessary. Come on, Greg. We don't want to be late for your appointment."

They moved off and once they were in the elevator Wilson apologised to him.

"Sorry, Greg. I didn't know they were going to do that."

"It doesn't matter, sir."

"It matters to me." Wilson sounded angry.

Greg didn't know what to say to that. The pat down was such a little thing, compared to what it could have been. Wilson looked at him and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm not mad at you, Greg. Just the whole thing. It isn't right that you're treated like that." The elevator stopped and Wilson ushered him off. "PT is just down the corridor."

They were quickly ushered into a private room when they entered the therapy department. The nurse on the reception desk had raised an eyebrow as she looked from Greg to Doctor Wilson but had refrained from saying anything. After they had been there a few minutes a woman came in, wearing scrubs and pushing her hair behind her ears. She was considerably shorter than either Greg or Wilson, and a little on the plump side.

"Doctor Wilson? I'm Jessica Reilly." They shook hands and her gaze went to Greg. "This is my patient? Greg? He's your slave?"

"Yes. We need an assessment of an old condition." Wilson handed over some scans and notes and launched into some technical detail about Greg's infarction. The lady looked them over, nodding her head as she listened to Wilson. Then she looked up at Greg.

"Slip your pants down, Greg and sit down on the bench. Let's have a look."

He reluctantly lowered his jeans and sat down where she indicated. The ugly scar on his leg was exposed to their view. Doctor Reilly briskly examined it - feeling around the edges and getting him to move his leg this way and that. More than once the leg screamed in pain and by the time she was finished he was sweating. She eyed him.

"Do you have a lot of pain, Greg?"

"Yes, ma'am." He said honestly and hurried on. "But it's a lot better since Doctor Wilson gave me the cane." He lifted the cane that was still in his hand. His hand was shaking slightly and he tried to still it.

She glanced at the cane.

"You weren't using one before?"

"No, ma'am."

"What about pain relief? What is he taking?" She asked Doctor Wilson and he detailed what he was giving Greg.

"He can't have narcotics without being admitted to a hospital," Wilson added.

She nodded. "It's hard enough for long term pain patients to get what they need, let alone a slave. But if he's managed this long without them I wouldn't start him on them anyway without a further acute injury. What he's taking sounds good - but monitor his pain levels. Now, about this cane. Pull your pants back up, Greg and let's see you walk around with the cane."

He walked the length of the room, conscious of both pairs of eyes on him, he tried to keep his movements as fluid as possible. He didn't want to lose the cane now.

"Give me the cane and walk without it for a bit." She held out her hand for the cane and Greg reluctantly surrendered it. He hadn't been without it since Wilson had given it to him. The lurching steps he took reminded him of what an improvement it had been. He'd only gone a few steps when she came up beside him and pressed the cane back into his hand.

"Okay, Greg, that's enough. Just take a seat again."

She picked up a blue file folder and made some notes on it. "Bring him in for appointments once a week, same time as today. We'll work on some strengthening and flexibility exercises. It will hurt but it will help in the long run. In the meantime, get some heating pads for him. Find a way to have some breakthrough pain medication on hand if needed. It might stop him bashing his hand against a wall to get relief."

Greg stared at her, worried. How had she known that he had sometimes resorted to that as a quick means of relief? She smiled and picked up his left hand.

"You do the left hand so that you can still work. The damage is fairly evident, if you know what to look for. Tell Doctor Wilson if the pain gets that bad again, he'll help you."

She smiled quickly at both of them and then swept out of the room.

After they had made their way back out of the hospital Wilson veered away from the parking lot where the car was and towards a large park. He led them to a wooden picnic table and sat down. Greg sat down next to him wondering what they were doing. The park was fairly quiet with only a few people running around the track that led around the outside.

"Sometimes I like to come here and think - or just get out of the hospital for a few minutes," Wilson explained. "I thought you might like to spend some time out here and enjoy the fresh air."

Greg took a deep breath and sat back, feeling the gentle spring breeze on his skin. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and it was a beautiful day.

"Thank you, sir. I would like that."


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you again for all your reviews. A couple of plot points in this chapter were sparked by those reviews and further discussion, so thank you for that! I hope you all enjoy this chapter._

* * *

Greg looked around at the stacks of brown boxes and the pieces of furniture scattered throughout the storage unit. Wilson had brought him here, on a Sunday afternoon, telling him he 'had a surprise for him'. Greg had been a little apprehensive but so far Wilson's 'surprises' had been nothing but good. The man in the office at the front of the complex had been reluctant to allow Greg back into where the units were but Wilson had insisted and in the end he'd waved them through.

All the things in the unit were Wilson's, in addition to everything he had in the apartment. But these stayed here, where he couldn't see them or use them, and apparently had to pay to store them. Greg owned a cane and some clothes. Except for he didn't own _them_, not really. Slaves couldn't own things.

He peeked into a half open box and saw stacks of old medical journals. His fingers twitched to explore them. He wished he could ask for them but he still hadn't told Wilson about his medical knowledge.

"Ha! I knew it was in here." Wilson emerged from his exploration of another box and handed his find to Greg with a grin.

Greg looked down at the object in his hands. It was a laptop computer.

"This is yours?"

"Not anymore. Now it's yours." Wilson looked at him with an expectant air. "I bought it for a Christmas gift for my wife, but well... we weren't together at Christmas so I never gave it to her. You can have it and use it while I'm at work."

"To do work for you, sir?" He'd been doing a little data entry and similar things on Wilson's computer, under his direction. Maybe Wilson wanted him to do more of that.

"To do anything you like. Hell, play solitaire all day long if you want to. But if you get sick of that I was thinking there are some online courses you can do. You must get a bit bored being stuck in the apartment all day."

After the first visit to the hospital and the park, Wilson had taken to going out with Greg for a walk around the neighbourhood most evenings. He said he needed the physical exercise after working all day but Greg suspected that he was doing it so that _Greg_ would get some exercise and some fresh air. He didn't know why Doctor Wilson tried to cover up the reason but he appreciated the opportunity to get out of the apartment.

It wasn't all pleasant. Several times Greg had been mocked by someone who had spotted his collar. He was aware that Wilson had been the target of some disapproving looks as well. He wasn't sure why free people would dislike Wilson taking a slave for a walk. But then the ways of free people were often a mystery to him.

The visits back to the hospital for therapy hadn't been easy. The exercises ramped up his pain level to the point where it had been before Wilson had bought him - an unpleasant reminder of the past. He couldn't see or feel any improvement in his leg from the exercises but the therapist had said it would take time. After each visit Wilson had given him a different type of pill which dulled the pain and made him tired. Greg knew that it was a narcotic but he wasn't sure which one. He didn't know how Wilson had obtained it but he was grateful for the effort.

These were only minor concerns though. The improvement in his life was so great that he barely registered the few drawbacks. The apartment was at a standard now that he didn't need to spend much time cleaning at all, and he enjoyed preparing food for their dinner. After reading through Wilson's cookbook he'd turned to the television and found some cooking shows to watch. Wilson had picked up a wide variety of different foodstuffs and Greg had become more and more adventurous in his cooking. Just eating such tasty foods after so many years of eating bland, poorly cooked, food, was an experience in itself.

The idea of being bored living such a life was beyond him but the computer would open up even more vistas. Wilson had said that he could 'go online'. Greg had seen enough modern television, and read enough magazines, by now to know what that meant.

He held the computer against his chest, afraid of dropping his precious burden on the hard floor. Wilson dug a case out of the box and handed it to him. Greg carefully put the computer into the case.

Wilson was continuing to hunt through boxes. "I've got some cooking stuff in here somewhere. We might need that at the rate you're going. That's an idea for an online course you could do too. Good cooks are always in demand." He started putting his finds into another box, presumably one they would take with them.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked up. "Yes?"

"Why do you have so many things here? Why haven't you taken them to the apartment if you own them?"

Wilson looked around the unit and sighed. "A lot of this stuff has been with me through three marriages, I guess when I moved into the apartment I didn't want to bring it along. But I didn't want to just throw it out either."

"_Three_ marriages?" Greg hadn't known that.

Wilson looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah, that's what my mom says."

Wilson was a few years younger than Greg. If he'd already had three marriages they must have been either short or in fairly quick succession. He wondered how long it would be before Wilson would be looking for another wife, and what would happen to him then.

"Oh, hey, look at this! My old guitar." Wilson was taking a guitar out of carrying case. It was an acoustic one, a basic model. Wilson strummed it. "My brothers and I used to play a bit. We were going to form a band." He smiled a little sadly. "Except Danny... well, it didn't work out anyway."

Greg stared at the guitar, his hands reaching for it without conscious thought. "Sir, could I..."

Wilson handed it over readily. "Do you know how to play?"

Greg nestled the guitar into his body, his fingers stroking the strings. The guitar was badly out of tune and would never have produced a great tone, even in its best days, but the sound echoed around the storage unit and brought a smile to his face. He knew this. This felt right. The guitar felt like an old friend. He did some riffs and ran through some chords, fingers moving surely and quickly.

"You do play! Better than I ever did anyway." Wilson grinned. "We'll take it with us, and get it tuned." He held out his hands and Greg reluctantly surrendered the guitar. Wilson zipped it up into the soft carry case and put it next to the box.

An hour or so later, burdened with several boxes of Wilson's belongings they went back to the car. Greg sat in the front seat but kept glancing around to the back where both the guitar and the computer sat.

* * *

Wilson sighed as he shut the door behind his latest patient. It never got any easier to tell peoplethey were dying, and probably within a few months_. _His patient had actually_ thanked_ him for telling her the news. Wilson wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

"Something the matter, Wilson?" He looked up as he heard Cuddy's voice, and saw her standing in front of his desk. He hadn't heard her come in.

"No." He shook his head. "Did you want something?"

Cuddy took a seat in front of his desk. "You know there are rumours all around the hospital about you and this slave? You've been bringing him here?"

He felt his temper flare up. What was so damned interesting about him having a slave? You'd think some of these people had never seen a slave before.

"He's coming in once a week for physical therapy. Which _I'm _paying for. So that maybe, one day, he can walk without searing pain in his leg. Security search him every damned time we go in and out, I stay with him during therapy, and he's never more than a few feet from me. Nobody can possibly object to that."

Cuddy shrugged. "Some people believe that we shouldn't be treating any slaves here at all."

" 'Some people' are assholes."

"Not arguing with you there. Truthfully I came down here just to get away for a few minutes. I've had department heads in and out of my office all day today, complaining about the budget. I don't know how they think I'm going to pull funds out of my ass for them." She glared at him when he opened his mouth. "You weren't going to say anything about its enormous size, were you, Wilson?"

He shook his head solemnly. "The thought never entered my mind. Do you want another set of eyes on it - the budget, not your ass - before the Board meeting tomorrow? See if there is any tweaking we can do?"

"That would be great. I've been staring at it so long my eyes are going square. But I'm tied up for the rest of the day."

"No problem, it's been a while since we've had dinner together. Come and eat at my place tonight and we can work on it afterwards." He'd been wanting to find a way of introducing Greg to a few other people anyway - his entire life shouldn't consist of Wilson and Wilson only. "But Cuddy, Greg will be eating with us - it's his home too. If that's a problem..."

She gave him a hard stare. "What, do you think I'd expect him to eat out of a bowl on the floor? Give me some credit, Wilson. If I can make nice at a dinner party with that creep Sanders I can manage to have dinner with a slave." She glanced at her watch and stood up. "Besides, I'm intrigued by this 'Greg'. He must be pretty special for you to have done all this for him."

"He is."

* * *

Greg put down the lid of his laptop a little reluctantly. True to his word Wilson had introduced him to the internet and Greg had dived in head first. The wealth of knowledge available was amazing. Any question he had, anything he wanted to know, it was all available on the internet, at his fingertips. And there were _so_ many things he wanted to know. Except for vague hints here and there he'd virtually missed twenty years worth of history. He had a lot to catch up on.

Wilson had rung him earlier in the afternoon, saying he was bringing Doctor Cuddy home to have dinner with them before they did some work. He'd asked Greg if he minded making enough food for three. Greg had, of course, said that he didn't mind.

He felt apprehensive about the visit. Normal people didn't treat slaves like Doctor Wilson treated them. He knew that Doctor Cuddy was Doctor's Wilson superior at the hospital - in fact, she was in charge of the entire hospital. She had no doubt employed the service of Rent-A-Slave which had led to Greg being at the hospital. He wondered if she knew that Doctor Wilson had purchased him and he would be there tonight.

He was in the middle of preparing dinner when Wilson came home.

"Hey. Cuddy will be along in about half an hour. How's dinner going?"

"Good, sir." He stirred the pot he had simmering. Wilson grabbed a beer out of the fridge for himself and offered one to him. Greg shook his head. He knew it was unusual for slaves to drink alcohol, and although Wilson allowed it, he didn't want Doctor Cuddy to smell it on him and cause trouble. He didn't know if that were possible but he wasn't willing to chance it.

"Sir, I can go to my room when Doctor Cuddy arrives." He offered, hoping Wilson would say yes.

Wilson frowned at him. "This is your home, Greg. I'm not chasing you out because I have a guest. Besides, I want her to meet you."

"Sir, she may not appreciate meeting me. I'm just a slave, after all."

"Don't put yourself down like that. You're my roommate and, I hope, my friend."

Friend. He tossed the word over in his mind. Greg wasn't sure what to make of it. Wilson_ owned_ him. He was friendly and kind towards him, and they had spent some enjoyable time together but nothing would change the fact that Greg was a slave, and Wilson was his owner.

"She knows about you, if that's what you're worried about. And I told her you'd be eating with us. After dinner we'll be working on the budget so it's fine if you want to go and do something else but you're not getting out of dinner. After all, you're cooking it." He grinned. "I nearly bought you flowers on the way home - that's what I used to give my wives when I sprung an extra person on them for dinner."

Greg didn't really know what to make of that so he kept on with his food preparation and the conversation moved on to what Greg had been doing that day. He was in the middle of explaining how he had stumbled upon 'YouTube' when Doctor Cuddy arrived. When he heard her knocking Wilson gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and went to let her in. Greg looked around the kitchen, making sure everything was in order and then looked back up as Wilson brought his guest into the kitchen.

Doctor Cuddy was a short, brunette woman, wearing high heels and clothes that fitted the curves of her body tightly. She was also very attractive. Greg felt his stomach turning into knots as he looked at her. Wilson waved a hand in his direction.

"Doctor Cuddy, this is Greg. Greg, Doctor Cuddy."

Doctor Cuddy glanced at him, a slight smile on her face and then stared harder, her eyes widening and the smile falling away as her mouth opened in shock.

"Oh, my God! Greg? Greg _House_?"

Greg felt a sharp pain lance through his head and he fell to his knees, retching.


End file.
